✑ welcome all dearies, to my little corner of ink and shadows.
for little background, writing has always been my space to express my thoughts. it’s where thoughts unravel and emotions take shape with teeth. i appear when i can. most of my hours belong to lectures, research, and the beautiful chaotic energy of being a university student.
when i am here, expect characters written in atmosphere, obsession, psychoanalyzing, realism, dark themes and psychological tension.
if it feels like it’s watching you back, it belongs.
from here on out, this space centers on Creepypasta / Marble Hornets. that is the spine of this blog. other times i’ll write in VNs spaces—TFC, Killer Chat, & maybe adventure to others, you may still see other remnants drift through occasionally.
i am no longer writing for TKATB, stop asking please.
✑ ꩜ 𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓎𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉
ᓭི༏ᓯྀ . 𝒾𝓃𝒻𝑜
ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ─ another quick intro, i’m yaya, a writer/researcher and a university student studying psychology/pre-med track, currently in my FOURTH year. i’ve loved writing since i was little and never really stopped.
if you see my work posted anywhere else, it isn’t me.
i write ONLY on tumblr and steer clear of ao3, curses be damned. adding on, this space is 18+. all of it. SFW only means “safe to view in public,” not “made for minors.” NSFW is explicit. either way, this blog is built for mature adults audiences.
if you are a minor, do not interact, send me inky asks/whisper and, absolutely do not message me. i am not responsible for you choosing to ignore warnings to read my work because you believe you’re mature enough to handle it.
also, if you are easily offended by dark themes, heavy psychology, or morally messy content, this will not be comfortable for you.
curate your space accordingly. my page, my rules.
ᓭི༏ᓯྀ . 𝓃𝑜𝓉𝑒
── .꩜ first things first, worried about my writing or posting schedule? lovely of you. tragic, though, because there isn’t one. i used to run on a schedule and it burned me out so badly it practically turned to ash in my hands. lesson learned.
so here are the rules: do not message me asking when I’m posting. i write when I can. I post when it’s ready. and don’t spam me. I’m open to questions about my work, but keep it respectful.
no invasive or rude personal asks.
ᓭི༏ᓯྀ. 𝒶𝓈𝓀𝓈 𝒷𝑜𝓍
𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓎 𝒶𝓈𝓀𝓈: OPEN
these are ONLY for prompts, ideas, for drabbles or headcanons, writing advice, or psychology related discussions. if it connects to fiction, craft, or character minds, it belongs there.
don’t ask me personal/insensitive questions.
like, if you ever have to carefully think about your question AND it sounds disrespectful, refrain so, if you still do, i WILL delete it.
please don’t ask me to psychoanalyze you.
i ONLY analyze/write fictional characters. real people deserve real professionals. and i'm not professional yet, this is all for studying purposes. keep it creative. keep it respectful. think of something interesting.
also, a reminder: i do not write everything I’m sent. i choose prompts that feel distinct, detailed, and layered enough for me to actually build with. Simple asks may can work, but it depends on whether they genuinely spark my interest.
if it doesn’t move me, I won’t force it!
ᓭི༏ᓯྀ. 𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈
── .꩜ proceed with caution, dearies. as my writing tends to wander deep into the dark—psychological trauma, morally gray choices, and unsettling territory—because i learn in the world of psych and neuroscience every day. that academic brain bleeds into my writing, twisting it into something uncanny and heavy.
i am fully comfortable exploring explicit, graphic, and morally questionable content; you are responsible for your OWN exposure if you ignore the warnings and choose to stay.
i’m fully comfortable with graphic or morally questionable content; however, i am not responsible how you FEEL or THINK, if you ignore the WARNINGS above and choose to stay.
things i don’t write:
incest or stepcest, pro-shipping, pedophilia, mommy/daddy kinks, pregnancy (nothing baby related), a/b/o, zoophilia, or anything related to the above. no exceptions.
things i do write:
character x reader (or OC for paid requests), every dark content, sfw/nswf themes, including cannibalism, murder, dubcon, yandere dynamics, realism, psychological/neurological and morally gray behavior.
yes, i write fluff, smut, angst, and nearly EVERY tag under the sun—but i’ll admit it: smut is my favorite. it’s hilarious to write, and my brain refuses to apologize.
i write reader-insert only (fem, afab, or gn). i don’t write from a male pov or genitalia, so i stick with any other focused perspectives instead.
your thoughts and feedback are ALWAYS welcome, however again, hate or irrelevant criticism will be tossed straight into the void—other words, deleted. this is a safe space for all minds and bodies—treat others the way you wish to be treated.
thank you again, truly, for all your support .ᐟ
ᓭི༏ᓯྀ. 𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓈
─ .꩜ #yayamain: all my inkquills and enchanted entryways.
─ .꩜ #yayainkyheadcanons/#yayainkydrabbles: all my headcanons stuff.
─ .꩜ #yayathoughts/#yayainterests: a jumble of musings, murmurs, and mischievous blabbles.
─ .꩜ #yayaupdate: tidings, alerts, and morsels you ought to know.
♤ — iyayadonna, all rights reserved. ⋆˚ ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ꩜ 。⋆ .ᐟ
summer is finally here for me, which means i can actually relax and get back into writing. this time though? i'm not gonna overdo it this time 😅, just taking things slow, small breaks, no rushing.
i realized i was genuinely burnt out and tried. like didn't wanna do anything burnt out. spring semester was HELL on earth and i just wanted it to be over. it's been over for a bit now, but i needed time to sleep and honestly? you can't really catch up on sleep once it's gone.
takes a lifetime to feel normal again. plus i wasn't doing great mentally either. so that's why i took such a long break.
what i learned: it's okay to wait a little longer for what you deserve.
without getting into deepr detail, every day i'm learning and trying to be kinder to myself. i'm only human. just living life. self love and all that—not letting things define who i am.
anyway! as you might've noticed, i'm slowly getting back into writing. replaying VNs, rereading my notes, trying to keep characters as canon as possible.
also: my inky ask box is open once more!
request whatever you want as long as it fits the rules in my pinned post. and feel free to recommend any VNs or creepypasta fics you've been craving for 🖤
Hello, my dearies! Welcome to the inner workings of the Iris Tent.
I would like to introduce Poppet—sometimes known as Poppetté, though those who knew her in the early days might remember the formally name, Inkyette of The Freak Circus!
I have spent these past few months carefully planning and revamping version of Poppet that you see now. I have had the distinct pleasure of working alongside the ARTIST @junkii5 who brought my vision to life on Poppet's existence!
You may have encountered those fleeting words of Poppet before—perhaps in the headcanons where they help navigate the temperaments of the other performers or explain the unsettling nature of the grotesques that haunt these grounds.
However words are such flimsy things, aren't they?
Again, I figured it was far past time to finally show you exactly what they look like and you know exactly who is pulling the strings~
So, in the older headcanons for Poppet are no longer true; she has undergone a total redesign, and her true origins remain a mystery. While a deeper dive into her nature may come in time, it is clear that Poppet stands apart from the rest of the The Freak Circus troupe.
Jester and Harlequin might mockingly refer to as a "Fool" or a "Sock Puppet," yet one who holds far more authority than they would ever admit.
Stitched together by the Doctor’s hands, Poppet’s existence is a reluctant debt owed to the Jester and the Ticket Taker.
Assigned to the Iris Tent by the Ticket Taker, she acts as the circus’s broker, deceptive of all trades.
Poppet’s role is to lure, wrapped in the aesthetic to visitors. She offers readings of the past, present, and future, drawing visitors in with tarot, charms, and palmistry that feel unnervingly accurate.
When she offers a guest a choice—one card or three—she is not merely performing a trick. She is navigating the threads of their fate.
A single-card draw allows her to grant a powder wish, but her power is transactional and inherently parasitic; there is always a "catch" hidden in the fine print of the reality she manipulates. Despite her outward charm, she is a vessel of the void. Her stitching holds back an abyss that hungers for more than just coins or curiosity.
She invites you into her tent with a welcoming smile, but be warned: there is a reason she keeps her clawed fingers tucked away.
Above all else, do not shake her hand.
Should you make that contact, you might find that you are no longer the one deciding where your shadow goes.
ℳ𝑜𝓇𝑒 ℐ𝓃𝒻𝑜 𝒜𝒷𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝒫𝑜𝓅𝓅𝑒𝓉
❝That is all the information you shall have for now, my playthings. I have pulled back the curtain. But remember—a Broker is only as powerful as the secrets she keeps. Now that you know exactly what I am, the real question is: what will you do with the information I’ve allowed you to find?❞
♤ — 𝓉𝒻𝒸 𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓎𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉
iyayadonna, all rights reserved. — ⋆˚ ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ꩜ 。⋆ .ᐟ
Can I pleaseee request an nsfw alphabet for doctor?(TFC) I don't really see much posts about him that much, thanks you if you do this!<3
❝ oh, littleplay thing, you have excellent taste.❞
ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ── Ink spun from my own fingertips—please don’t take, mirror, or rewrite it.
꩜ Warning: sooo filthy and medical lingo. 8.4k ── ᓭི༏ᓯྀ
hello playthings! it is i, poppet once again, and im about to share the truth. the little string i'm about to pull.
in the TFC grotesque, doctor doesn't get nearly enough attention.
everyone's so busy with pierrot's tears and harlequin's teeth and jester's... everything. even poor ticket taker gets overlooked, but that's a different stitch for a different day. but doctor? the one who looks at you like you're the most fascinating specimen in his collection? who speaks in that low, pleasant hum that makes your skin crawl in a not-entirely-bad way?
so let me break down the nsfw alphabet for our favorite plague doctor.
and don't you worry. i'll be thorough because that's what he would want.
a = aftercare
okay, starting off, doctor's aftercare is very much… clinical. it’s expected but not in a cold way, more in a thorough way?
he doesn't do pillow talk. he doesn't whisper sweet nothings. what he does is check your pulse, your pupils, your breathing. he runs his cool fingers along your skin, looking for marks he might have left without realizing.
for example:
“you're trembling," he'll observe, his voice that low, pleasant hum. “that's normal. it will pass." and then he'll pull a blanket over you, not because he's soft, but because "temperature regulation is essential for recovery."
side note: he absolutely keeps a stash of water and snacks by his bed. not for romance. for efficiency. but you'll appreciate it when your legs don't work.
however, aftercare when his eyes are red is... different.
he's much quieter, more the type to trace the marks he left, so all the bites, the scratches, the places where his hands gripped too hard and his cyan eyes will switch back and forth between colors, like he's fighting something.
"did i hurt you?" he'll ask, voice is still calm, but there's bit of care underneath it. if you say no, he'll relax. if you say yes, he'll spend the next hour making sure you're okay. stitches if you need them, salves, soft touches that don't ask for anything in return.
b = body part
his favorite: his hands
why? because they're elegant, long-fingered? (lol), and always cool to the touch. he uses them for everything, surgery, gardening, maybe playing heavy metal guitar? (kidding) and you.
he knows exactly how much pressure to apply. where to touch. how to make you shiver without even trying.
for example:
"fascinating," he'll murmur, tracing a line down your spine. "your skin responds so beautifully to stimulus." also his eyes, when they're cyan, he's observing. when they're red, he's hungry. and watching them shift mid-act? chef's kiss.
for you, is your throat.
doctor loves watching your pulse. the way it flutters when you're nervous. the way it races when he's close. the way it jumps when his fingers brush against your jugular.
"such a vulnerable place," he'll say, thumb resting lightly on your windpipe. "and yet you let me touch it. do you trust me that much? or are you simply... foolish?"
he says it like both answers please him.
c = cum
he has two sides, first is the clinical interest. he'll observe the quantity, the consistency, the way your body reacts to release. he might even... take notes afterwards.
for example:
"interesting," he'll murmur, more to himself than to you. "the viscosity has changed since last time. i wonder if it's something you ate."
his fingers trail through it. testing. studying.
and then he might actually pull out a small notebook. a little leather one he keeps in his coat pocket. and he'll write things down.
“your volume is approximately four milliliters, the consistency, slightly thicker than average and thrn color pearlescent white with minimal translucence."
you'll be lying there, still trembling, still trying to remember how to breathe, and he'll be taking notes.
"fascinating," he'll say, capping his pen. "your heart rate spiked 30% higher than last time. your pupils dilated more rapidly. your skin flushed deeper."
he looks at you. cyan eyes softs, "i wonder what triggered that. we should... experiment further. for science."
and you'll know, even though he won't say it , that you triggered it. you did that to him. and he's very grateful.
however, the other side, is more messy, possessive.
he doesn't pull out carefully anymore. doesn't observe from a distance. no, no. when he's red, he wants to mark you. wants to see his release on your skin, on your lips, in you.
he likes seeing it on you—your stomach, your thighs, your lips if you've been good. he likes the visual proof that he's affected you.
"look at that," he'll murmur, red eyes tracking every drop. "you're ruined. and i did that."
he says it like a compliment.
d = dirty secret
doctor terrified of being bad at intimacy.
not sex. he's like somewhat confident there but the after, you know, the during. the moments where he's supposed to be soft and he doesn't know how.
so he overcompensates with science. with observation and data because if he can study you, he can understand you. and if he can understand you, he can't fail you.
also? he's desperately curious about what you sound like when you're not holding back. when you forget to be polite. when you break a little but he'd never admit that.
well, not out loud, anyway.
e = experience
how experienced is he?
if recall correctly, doctor is a virgin, very much inexperienced.
not because he couldn't. not because no one wanted him. but because he never... let anyone close enough. doctor is shy, and not in the cute way pierrot is—all trembling hands and desperate confessions. doctor's shyness is much quieter and colder.
he doesn't know how to be touched. doesn't know how to want someone without studying them first.
and he's massive. you've seen him. you know. the way he has to duck through doorways. the way his horns scrape the ceiling. the way his hands, long, elegant, cool hands—could wrap around your throat without even trying.
he's aware of his size. acutely aware.
and it terrifies him.
for example:
"i could hurt you," he's said. not as a threat. as a fact. "without meaning to. without wanting to. my body is not... gentle."
so he kept his distance, listened to his heavy metal music and watched from the shadows.
never touching, reaching until you.
here's the thing about doctor. he's brilliant. he knows anatomy better than anyone—every nerve, every pulse point, every place where pleasure and pain intersect but knowing something intellectually? reading about it in books? observing it in specimens?
that's not the same as doing.
he doesn't know how to kiss. his first attempt with you was clumsy. his teeth bumped against yours. his mask got in the way. he pulled back, red-faced--redder than usual, anyway, and said:
“…let me try again."
he doesn't know how to touch without examining. his fingers want to find your pulse. want to check your pupils. want to document instead of feel. "stay still," he'll say, and you'll think he's being commanding. but really? really?
he's just scared, scared of hurting you. scared of doing it wrong. scared that you'll laugh at him, leave him, decide he's not worth the effort.
but he's learning for you.
he’ll reads books about intimacy, pleasure, how to touch someone gently when your hands are made for surgery.
he practices on his plants. please don't laugh, he does. you should see the way he strokes his ferns now. tender like he's learning what softness feels like.
hell he’s even seat the
he asks questions. so many questions.
"does this feel good?" he'll murmur, his cool fingers tracing your spine. "what about this? here? here?"
and when you gasp, when you say yes, his eyes shine red for just a second. like he's proud of himself and accomplished something monumental. "fascinating," he'll breathe. "i've never made anyone sound like that before. i'd like to do it again."
that's worth more than all the experience in the world.
f = favorite position
cowgirl. simple and fitting.
and not because he's lazy, because he likes watching you. from below, he has the perfect view of your face, every flutter of your eyelids, every parted-lip breath, every moment you lose yourself. "don't look away," he'll instruct, cyan eyes fixed on yours. "i want to see everything."
yet from the red side, it’s from behind. kneeling. bent over something—his desk, his examination table, you name it.
he likes the control. the way he can grip your hips and set the pace. the way he can lean over and whisper in your ear, red eyes glowing in the dark.
"you're doing so well," he'll say. "just a little longer. i want to see how much you can take."
g = goofy
is he serious during intimacy, or can he be playful?
well …does doctor look like he does goofy?
you know what, why even asked that, (everyone in the fandom draws mans as a damn bird with one stick leg, so maybe)
he's a bit serious during sex, like focused and intense but sometimes something will catch him off guard. maybe a noise or a cramp, or the way your stomach growls at an inopportune moment.
he'll pause and tilt his head, processing, "...that was unexpected," he'll say and then he'll keep going.
(unsure why doctor and ticket taker gives so much DILF vibes??)
h = hair
how important is hair to him? does he like having his touched?
doctor has red hair, dark and rich.
the kind you want to run your fingers through…? now is he well-groomed? ...he's a doctor, dear. hygiene is kind of his thing. as for down there, he’s trimmed.
he'd call it "maintained for optimal hygiene and accessibility." i call it "he definitely manscapes and probably has opinions about it."
i = intimacy
how important is emotional connection during sex?
this is where it gets complicated.
doctor doesn't really romance. not the way pierrot does, with tears and poetry and desperate clinging, actually, now thinking about it I feel like he's like the only one that would do a romance… maybe just pierrot, ticket taker and maybe jester in his own way.
anyway! doctor's intimacy is observation.
he shows he cares by noticing. remembering and cataloging the things that make you you and keeping them safe in that strange, clinical mind of his.
"you always bite your lip when you're thinking," he'll say, mid-act. "and you make a small sound—here—when you're close."
he's not trying to be sexy. he's just... telling you. sharing his data. letting you see how much attention he's paid.
and somehow, that's more intimate than any love confession.
j = jack off
does he masturbate? how often? what does he think about?
he treats it like... maintenance.
just a biological need. something to address so he can focus on other things, efficient and quick. he probably has a schedule. uhh, don't think about it too hard.
but he gonna become more obsessive later on.
when his eyes are red, he thinks about you. specifically. vividly. the sounds you'd make, the way you'd look, the things he'd do to you. now these sessions take much longer.
and afterwards, he just... lies there, staring at the ceiling
"...inefficient," he'll mutter, and then he'll do it again the next night.
k = kink
what unusual turn-ons does he have?
oh my, where do i start?
well, just know that doctor is known to be the least kinky out of everybody in the circus, however his interest still lies on the kniy side
1. mask kink (obviously)
he wears his plague mask during sex sometimes. the beak. the hollow eyes. the way his voice sounds muffled and otherworldly. "keep it on," you'll beg. and he will. because he likes the way you look at him when he's unrecognizable.
2. medical play
examinations. instruments. the cold press of a stethoscope against your racing heart. "just breathe," he'll say. "i'm going to take such good care of you."
3. blood play.
he doesn't need to draw it all the time. but if it happens—if you want it to happen, he won't say no. "you're so beautiful like this," he'll murmur, watching red drip down pale skin. "like a wound that wants to be kissed."
5. sadism. just light and controlled. nothing you can't handle but he likes the way you stay still, the way that tiny gasp leaves your lips. the way you trust him even when he's being mean.
"good job sweetie,” he'll say. and mean it.
l = location
favorite places to do it?
1. the greenhouse
this is his primary spot. it's warm, humid, and smells like soil and blooming things. there's something about being surrounded by life while he does unspeakable things to you that just works. He'll lay you down on the soft moss and say,
“no one will find us here. scream if you want. the plants don't mind." It's his space, and he wants you in it.
2. his tent
basic, but reliable. his tent is where he keeps his tools, his examination table, and his specimens. there's a clinical intimacy to it, like the faint smell of antiseptic, the soft glow of wet specimen jars lining the walls. ge's comfortable here. In control. and he likes having you somewhere that feels like his.
3. the examination table
as mention, this one is less about romance and more about convenience. It's the right height. It has straps, which he may or may not use). and there's something deeply unsettling in a way that he enjoys, about laying you down where he usually examines his specimens.
“stay still," he'll say. “this won't hurt. Much."
m = motivation
what gets him in the mood?
1. trust
doctor is used to fear. flinching, crying, and begging.
he's seen it all, and honestly? It bores him. fear is useful, well biologically speaking but it doesn't interest him. what gets his blood pumping is calm. xomeone who tries to look under his mask, his tools, his red eyes, and doesn't run.
"you're not scared of me," he observed, tilting his head. "why?"
and when you said, "because i trust you," his eyes shine red for just a second with a sharp smile yet he looked away before anything else could happen
that's when you knew. he's not motivated by terror. he's motivated by trust. by someone who sees the monster and stays anyway. by you.
2. vulnerability
not the weak kind. it’s more like when you bare your throat to him, so literally or figuratively, when you let him see you shaking, hear you gasping, watch you fall apart because of him... his breath catches. his hands tighten. his eyes go red and stay there.
"you're giving this to me," he'll murmur, thumb brushing your pulse point. "your fear. your pleasure. your everything. do you have any idea what that does to me?"
he doesn't expect an answer. he doesn't need one. the way you tremble beneath him is answer enough.
3. the audacity
so bravery that borders on stupid. when you talk back. when you grab his mask and pull it close. when you whisper something filthy in his ear just to watch him break.
"you think you can handle me?" you ask, and his eyes go red instantly. "careful," he warns, voice low. "i'm not as gentle as i look." but you don't stop. you never stop.
and that audacity is what pushes him over the edge.
for example:
you're in his greenhouse. the air is nice, thick and warm, smelling of soil and blooming jasmine. he's tending to his plants, back turned, cyan eyes soft, completely unaware of you watching from the doorway.
"you're staring," he says without looking up.
"maybe."
he sets down his watering can, turn to face you and tilts his head. "what do you want?"
you step closer, enough to touch, to see the way his pupils dilate.
"you," you say in a simple and honest tone.
his eyes shine red, just once then back to cyan.
"that's... dangerous."
"i know."
you reach up and push his mask to the side. just enough that you can see the sharp line of his jaw, the way his breath catches when your thumb brushes his lower lip.
"still not scared," you whisper.
his hands find your waist, grip tight. "you should be."
"but i'm not."
his eyes flash red, stay red this time. and then he's lifting you onto the workbench, onto your back, onto the soft moss he keeps for his more delicate specimens. his body presses against yours. his weight pins you down, his mouth—finally, finds your throat.
"you asked for this," he growls against your skin. "you begged for this. don't you dare pretend otherwise."
you don't. you moan instead. loud enough that the plants shiver.
"good," he breathes. "such a good specimen. now hold still. i want to see how loud i can make you scream."
n = no
what would make him stop immediately?
1. feigned or performative fear
again, doctor is used to real fear. he knows what it looks like, the dilated pupils, the rapid breathing, the way the body tenses and tries to pull away. what he cannot stand is fake fear. performative trembling. exaggerated whimpering. anything that feels like an act rather than an authentic response.
“if you're going to put on a show for me," he says flatly, pulling back, "we're done here. i don't do theater."
he needs genuine reactions. honest ones. if he suspects you're playing a role just to please him, he loses interest immediately.
2. loss of consciousness or dissociation
let’s say if you pass out from pleasure, pain, or from overstimulation—he stops immediately. If you dissociate, your eyes go blank, stop responding like you... he pulls back and goes into full doctor mode.
“stay with me," he'll say, checking your pulse, your pupils, your breathing. “look at me. look at me."
he will not continue until he is certain you are fully present and fully consenting. and if you cannot get there? the encounter ends. he will hold you, comfort you. but he will not touch you again that night.
“i need you here," he admits quietly. “not floating somewhere I cannot follow. if I lose you... i don't know how to come back from that."
o = oral
giving vs receiving?
giving: doctor is very skilled.
he knows anatomy well, such as every nerve, every fold, every spot that makes your legs shake. he knows exactly where to put his tongue, his lips, his teeth. and he is patient.
he will stay down there for as long as it takes, lapping and sucking and exploring, until you are trembling, begging, completely forgotten your own name.
for example:
“fascinating," he murmurs against your slick skin, his breath warm, his tongue flicking lazily over your clit. "You're so responsive. i wonder how many more times i can make you—"
you never find out. because you pass out.
and he has to stop and do aftercare instead.
don’t worry, he doesn't mind. he'll just try again tomorrow.
receiving: doctor is enthusiastic about it.
when you take him into your mouth, his hands tangle in your hair, not pushing nor forcing, just holding. his hips twitch and breath catches, eyes switch cyan to red and back again, like he cannot decide which side of him is winning.
for example:
“don't stop," he breathes, and his voice is still calm, but there is something underneath it.
he has to be careful with you though. he is massive. not just long, thick. and when you take him into your throat, when you push past your gag reflex and take him, you can see the bulge in your neck, very prominent and obvious, moving when he does.
and you are barely halfway through.
he watches this happen. his red eyes track the way your throat stretches around him, the way your jaw strains, the way your eyes water but do not look away.
“f-fascinating," he whispers. “look at that. you can see me inside you."
again, he is careful, though. he does not want you to choke. he pays attention to your breathing, your color, the way your hands grip his thighs for stability.
“breathe through your nose, sweetie” he instructs softly. “good. good. you're doing so well."
but he is also pushing your limit. just a little. he will hold you there, his cock trying to be halfway down your throat, the bulge in your neck pulsing with your heartbeat and he will wait. “you can take more," he murmurs. “i know you can. show me."
abd when you try, relaxed your throat, let him slip deeper, when the bulge in your neck grows more pronounced his is grip tightens in your hair. a low sound escapes him, something between a groan and a growl.
“good specimen," he breathes. “such a good specimen."
also if you look up at him through your lashes while he is in your mouth, while your lips are stretched around him, while tears cling to your lashes and your throat is full—
he’ll will break.
his hips will stutter. his breath will hitch. his red eyes will go wide, then narrow, then dark. “you,” he will say, voice rough, wrecked, nothing like his usual calm. “you are going to be the death of me."
and he will mean it. every word.
he does not let you go until tears stream down your cheeks and your throat is full of him. and even then, he pulls out slowly, just watching the way your lips release him with a wet sound.
“you did excellently," he says, cupping your chin, tilting your face up. his thumb wipes the tears from your cheeks. “we will practice again tomorrow. i want to see how much more you can fit."
overall, doctor loves oral both ways.
p = pace
fast and rough, or slow and gentle?
somedays, slow because doctor isn't in a rush. he has all night, and he intends to use it. every touch is measured. every thrust is calculated. he's studying you—the way you respond, the sounds you make, the places where you're most sensitive.
"interesting," he'll murmur, adjusting his angle. "you made a different sound that time. let me try again."
other days, hard, fast, and desperate.
again when his eyes are red, the control slips. not completely—he'd never lose control but enough that you can feel the hunger beneath the calm. "you wanted this," he'll growl, gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. "you wanted the monster. so take him."
and you do. because you're brave like that.
q = quickie
does he like quick, spontaneous encounters?
honestly, it’s not his favorite.
doctor prefers time and space. you know, the ability to observe and catalog and draw things out. but sometimes when his eyes are red and you're wearing something distracting and there's a supply tent right there—sometimes he makes exceptions.
"this is inefficient," he'll mutter, pushing you against the wall. "we don't have enough time for proper aftercare."
he does it anyway.
r = risk
is he willing to take risks? (public, being caught, etc.)
absolutely not.
like, hard no. the doctor hates the idea of being caught. hates it. it's not even about embarrassment or shame—it's about control. his work, his experiments, his time with you — none of it is for public consumption.
he doesn't want an audience. doesn't want curious eyes. doesn't want someone walking in and asking questions he doesn't feel like answering.
"this is between you and me," he says, voice low and final. "no one else. ever."
he means it.
so no, you're not going to convince him to sneak into a supply closet during a show. you're not going to drag him behind the tents while the crowd is distracted. he'll shut that down immediately.
"we're not animals," he says flatly. "and i'm not a performer. what i do with you is private. mine. i don't share."
and it's not just about modesty. it's about interruption. the doctor cannot stand being interrupted. not during his research, not during his experiments, and definitely not during intimacy.
nothing kills his mood faster than a knock on the door or a voice calling his name from outside the tent.
his focus shatters. his body goes cold. and his eyes, which might have been red just a second ago and switch back to cyan like someone flipped a switch.
"wait," he says, pulling away, already reaching for his mask. "someone's coming."
and then he's gone. not physically because he's still right there but the moment is over. the heat is gone. he's already calculating who it might be, what they want, how quickly he can get rid of them.
by the time whoever it is leaves? he's not in the mood anymore. maybe later. maybe tomorrow. but right now? he's a bit frustrated and cold and done.
"i told you," he says, not looking at you. "this is why i prefer the greenhouse. no one bothers us there."
except for the plants. but the plants don't count. the plants are silent.
for example:
you're on his examination table. the leather is cool beneath your back, but his hands are warm, warmer than usual pressing you into the surface as his mouth works its way down your throat.
his mask is off. pushed aside. probably forgotten somewhere on the floor.
"stay quiet," he murmurs against your collarbone. "i don't want anyone to hear you." his hips press against yours.
you can feel him through his clothes, hard, heavy, ready and your breath catches. "doctor—"
"shh." his fingers find the button of your pants. undoes it. slips inside.
and then, you and him hear, "doctor? you in there?"
a muffled voice, harlequin's voice, dripping with amusement like he knows exactly what he's interrupting.
the doctor freezes, his whole body goes rigid above you. his eyes which had been that deep, hungry red switch to flash cyan so fast it almost hurts to watch.
"don't move," he whispers then he pulls away. straightens his coat. reaches for his mask.
"what?" you breathe. "you're just going to—“
"yes."
he's already at the tent flap, mask in place, cyan eyes cold and distant.
"not now, harlequin," he says, voice flat. "i'm busy."
"busy doing what?" harlequin's grin is audible. "because it sounded like you were—“
"leave." just one word he said.
yet there's a pause. a snicker. and then footsteps retreating.
doctor stands there for a long moment, his back to you, his shoulders tense.
"...he's gone," you say.
"i know."
"so we can—“
"no." he turns. his eyes are still cyan. still cold. the heat from before is gone, replaced by something tired and frustrated and closed off.
"the moment is ruined," he says. "i cannot simply... pick up where we left off. not when my mind is already calculating how long it will be before the next interruption."
"but—“
"another time, sweetie.”
he crosses to his desk. sits down. pulls out a notebook.
you're still on the examination table, pants undone, body buzzing with want that has nowhere to go.
"you're just going to... take notes?"
"yes."
"...about what?"
he looks at you, just for a second. "about how you looked just now," he says quietly. "spread out on my table. wanting me. needing me." he looks down at his notebook. "i'll use it for... research. later. when i'm alone."
your face burns. "that's not fair."
"no," he agrees. "it's not."
and then he starts writing once again. so yeah doctor doesn't do risks, public, or interruptions.
s = stamina
how long can he last?
holy shit. well, doctor can go for hours.
not because he's superhuman—though, i mean, monster but because he knows how to pace himself. how to draw things out. how to make you do most of the work while he observes. on red side is faster. more intense. but also shorter. like a storm violent, consuming, and then over.
as for rounds? three. maybe four, if you beg nicely.
t = toys
do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?
yes, absolutely.
doctor has tools. not sex toys, technically — medical equipment. but he's... creative. vibrating tools designed for muscle stimulation. speculums for examination. sounds for listening. things that vibrate, things that pulse, things that stretch.
"this isn't sexual," he'll say, holding up something that is definitely sexual. "this is for research."
he's lying but it's hot lying, so you let it slide.
u = unfair
how much do they like to tease?
well, doctor can be a bit of a liar.
not in a mean way. not in a way that hurts. but in a way that makes you want to scream his name while he watches you fall apart with those calm, cyan eyes.
see, here's the thing. he doesn't realize how good he is at teasing. it's not intentional, not at first. it's just... part of who he is. part of his clinical training.
and sometimes, when he's studying you, he notices things.
like the way your hips twitch when he gets close but doesn't touch. like the way your breathing changes when his fingers trail up your thigh and stop just short of where you need them. like the way you whimper, just a little when he pulls his hand away completely.
"fascinating," he'll murmur, watching you squirm. "your body is desperate for release. your heart rate has increased by nearly 40%. your pupils are dilated. your skin is flushed."
he tilts his head. those cyan eyes never leave your face.
"but i want to see how long you can maintain this state."
and he means it.
he'll keep you there for hours if you let him. fingers hovering, mouth pressed to your neck but not kissing, hips flush against yours but not moving. just... waiting. watching. cataloging every twitch, every gasp, every desperate little sound you make.
"please," you'll beg. "please, doctor—"
"not yet." his voice is calm and composed.
and somehow that makes it so much worse.
because if he were being mean, like if he were smirking or laughing or calling you names, you could get angry, try to push him away.
but he's not being mean. he's just... curious. genuinely curious about how much you can take.
and you? you want to be good for him, be the specimen that exceeds his expectations. the one he writes about in his notebook with little stars in the margins.
so you stay still. you hold back. you let him watch.
and when he finally touches you, when his fingers slide into you like they belong there, you nearly sob with relief. "good," he breathes. "such a good specimen. i knew you could do it."
his eyes shine red for just a second.
and you realize: he enjoyed that. maybe more than you did.
the red side is worse. so much worse.
because when his eyes are red, he's not just observing. he's participating. and he's smiling. not a big smile. not a creepy grin. just... a small curl at the corner of his lips. the kind that says i know exactly what i'm doing to you and i love every second of it.
"you're shaking," he'll observe, red eyes glowing. "good. keep shaking. i want to see how long it takes for you to break."
and he'll keep pushing. and pushing. and pushing.
bringing you to the edge. pulling you back. bringing you again. pulling you back.
until you're crying. until you're begging. until you can't remember your own name, only his. "please," you sob. "please, i can’t—“
"you can." his voice soft, almost gentle. "and you will. because i asked you to."
he's a liar. he told you he wasn't good at teasing. he told you it wasn't intentional.
but the way he smiles when you fall apart? the way he watches you unravel like a specimen under a microscope?
yeahhh. he may knows exactly what he's doing.
v = volume
how loud are they? what sounds do they make?
doctor is quiet, in my opinion.
now, not the kind of quiet where he's holding back. not the kind where he's embarrassed or shy. just... quiet. naturally, effortlessly, quiet. he doesn't moan. doesn't gasp. doesn't whimper or cry out or any of the things you might expect from someone so intense.
but he still breathes.
when he's calm, when his eyes are cyan and he's just observing, just studying, his breathing is slow. measured. almost hypnotic. in through his nose, out through his mouth. steady as a metronome.
but when he's into it? when his eyes start switching red and his composure starts to crack?
his breathing changes. it gets heavier. faster. hungrier.
like you can hear it in the quiet moments—when his face is buried in your neck, when his forehead is pressed against yours, when his lips are hovering just above your skin.
inhale. exhale. inhale. exhale.
each breath feels like a caress. like he's tasting you through the air alone.
and sometimes, which is rae, when he's close, when his eyes are red, when you've been perfect, he'll make a sound.
a hum, low and pleased, almost like a purr.
it vibrates through his chest, through his hands, through the places where your bodies touch. and it makes your toes curl. every single time.
"there," he'll breathe, voice barely a whisper. "just like that. stay."
and you will. because his voice is commanding, even when it's barely audible. even when it's soft. even when it's gentle.
"you're so quiet," you say once, afterward, when you're both catching your breath. "i can barely hear you."
he looks at you. "i don't need to be loud," he says. "you make enough noise for both of us."
it's not an insult. it's just... true.
because when he's inside you, when his fingers are working you open, when his mouth is on your throat, when his hips are pressing you into the mattress, you can't help but sound.
you moan. you gasp. you whimper. you cry out his name like a prayer.
and he listens.
he listens to every sound, catalogs every pitch, files away every desperate little whine for later. for research. "fascinating," he'll murmur, thumb brushing your lower lip. "the sounds you make. i've never heard anything like them."
his eyes shines red.
"i'd like to hear more."
and then he's on you again, quiet, always quiet while you fall apart beneath him.
he doesn't make a sound but you make plenty.
w = wild card
what's the wildest thing they're willing to do? where are their limits?
you'd expect me to say something about his red side. something about the sadistic streak, the hunger, the way he loses control when his eyes flash crimson. or him dedicating his time to make you a large nest to impress you with.
and yeah, that's part of it. but that's not unexpected.
the wild card? the thing that will actually surprise you?
he lets you take care of him.
not in a sexual way, okay so well, not only in a sexual way. but in a soft way. in a way that has nothing to do with scalpels or specimens or clinical observation.
see, doctor is always the one in control. always the one observing, studying, taking care. he tends his plants. he tends his patients. he tends you.
but he never lets anyone tend to him until you.
and when he finally does, lets you see the soft, vulnerable thing underneath the mask—it's the wildest thing he's ever done. because for the doctor, vulnerability is terrifying. more terrifying than any experiment.
so, he lets you run your fingers through his red hair while he lies on your chest, eyes closed, breathing slow. he lets you kiss his forehead, his bare forehead, mask pushed aside without flinching or pulling away.
he lets you whisper sweet things in his ear and doesn't call them "inefficient" or "sentimental."
he just... accepts them and you.
and sometimes, on the rare nights when his walls come down all the way, he even asks for it. "stay," he'll murmur, voice barely audible. "don't go. not yet."
and you'll stay because doctor, the so called cold, clinical, composed doctor is clingy bird when he lets himself be. he wraps himself around you like a vine, all long limbs and cool skin, and he doesn't let go until morning.
x = x-ray
let's see what's going on under those clothes there
so …are you sure you want to do this? all of it? it’ll make your thighs press together and your breath catch just thinking about it?
fine. let's talk about what the doctor is packing.
because here's the thing. you've seen him. you know he's very tall, above average height, 207 cm to be exact (6’9.5 ft)—you know he's bulky and simply massive.
but down there?
down there is where the surprise lives.
under his clothes, the doctor is massive. not in a cartoonish way, not comically oversized or absurdly proportioned. but in a way that makes your eyes go wide and your mouth go dry and your brain short-circuit because how is that supposed to fit inside you?
he's the biggest of the entire circus. bigger than pierrot. bigger than jester. bigger than anyone.
and he knows it.
the length alone when fully erect, he's just over nine inches. call it twenty-three centimeters for those who like precision. from base to tip, a solid, heavy length that curves slightly upward. just enough to hit that spot inside you that makes stars explode behind your eyes.
then the thickness is where it gets intimidating. his girth is... substantial. you can't wrap your hand around him. can't close your fingers. your thumb and middle finger won't even touch when you try.
he's the thickness of a wrist, lowkey more thicker than that—and the first time you see him, you'll actually say “ah hell no” out loud before your brain catches up.
like he curves slightly to the left. just a little. just enough to be noticeable. and when he's inside you, that curve presses against your walls in a way that feels careful, like his body knows exactly where to go
for more details, he's not shaved bare, there's a neat patch of red hair at the base, the same color as the hair on his head. trimmed, tidy, intentional. and when he's aroused which is often, around you, his balls draw up tight against his body, heavy and full.
he knows all of this. he's measured, cataloged and studied.
"purely for research purposes," he'll say, when you catch him looking at his own notes.
you don't believe him but you also don't argue.
for example:
the first time you see it, you're in his tent.
his mask is off, pushed aside, forgotten and his clothes are somewhere on the floor. he's standing in front of you, naked, and you're still fully dressed, because he wanted to look at you first.
"your turn," he says, cyan eyes tracking down your body.
you swallow. "can i... can i see you first?"
he tilts his head. "see me?"
"all of you."
there's a pause at first and then he steps back. "very well."
he doesn't pose. doesn't preen. just stands there, hands at his sides, letting you look.
and you do.
you look at his chest first, his red skin covered in old scars, the stitches that mark where he's cut himself open in the name of curiosity. you look at his arms, long, elegant, corded with lean muscle. you look at his hips, narrow, sharp, with that v-shape that makes your mouth water.
and then you look down, you freeze.
"what's wrong, sweetie?” he asks, voice calm. but there's a tension in his jaw. a flicker of red in his eyes.
"nothing," you say. "i just—“ you swallow. "you're massive.”
"i'm aware."
"no, i mean—“ you gesture vaguely at his crotch. "big. like... really big. very above average for humans.”
his head tilts. "is that a problem?"
you look at him. at his face, at his eyes, at the way his hands are fidgeting at his sides like he's nervous. “uhh i don't know," you admit. "let me... let me see."
he steps closer and you reach out.
your hand wraps around him or tries to. your fingers don't even come close to touching. there's a full inch of space between your thumb and middle finger, and he's heavy in your palm, warm and thick and alive.
"oh," you breathe.
"oh?" his voice is strained. "is that... good oh or bad oh?"
you look up at him. his eyes are red now, fully red, glowing in the dim lighting, and his breathing has gone shallow.
"good oh," you say. "definitely good oh."
his hips twitch. just a little. just enough that you feel him pulse against your palm. "you're going to need preparation," he says, voice barely controlled. "a lot of it. i won't fit otherwise."
"then prepare me."
his eyes flash. and then he's on his knees in front of you, pulling your pants down, pushing you back onto the examination table.
"spread your legs," he says, already reaching for a jar of lube. "i'm going to be thorough." and he is. he spends what feels like hours opening you up, one finger, then two, then three, just stretching, preparing you, watching your face the whole time to make sure you're not in pain.
"tell me if it's too much," he says, "i need to know."
"it's not too much."
"yet." he adds a fourth finger. you gasp. your back arches off the table. "there," he murmurs, watching you squirm. "you're taking it so well. such a good specimen."
"doctor—“
"not yet." his voice is firm. "you're not ready yet. i won't risk hurting you."
he keeps going. keeps stretching and watching. and when he finally lines himself up at your entrance, when you feel the head press against you, thick and warm and overwhelming,
"breathe," he says. "and look at me."
you do.
his eyes are red. just hungry for more of you but his hands are gentle, and his movements are slow, and he watches your face like he's afraid you'll shatter.
"push back if it's too much," he says. "i'll stop. i promise."
and then he pushes inside.
just the head. just a fraction of an inch. “f-fuck, holy shit…” you're already gasping, already clawing at his shoulders, already wondering how all of that is supposed to fit inside you.
"breathe," he says again. "just breathe. we have all night."
he waits, lets you adjust, watches your face and then he pushes deeper.
y = yearning
how much do they crave intimacy? how often do they think about it?
okay, so doctor has two sides.
two different answers. two different hungers.
first the calm side: cyan
controlled and manageable when his eyes are cyan, the doctor doesn't need sex. not the way some people do. he can go weeks without thinking about it, weeks lost in his research, his plants, his experiments. his heavy metal music doesn't look at him with hungry eyes and whisper his name like a prayer.
so he forgets. sometimes. for a little while.
he buries himself in work. in data. in the quiet hum of his greenhouse.
and then he sees you.
and it all comes rushing back.
not enough to distract him. not enough to consume him. but enough that his eyes linger on your throat a little too long. enough that his fingers twitch at his sides, remembering the way your skin feels under them. enough that he has to look away, just for a second to collect himself.
"fascinating," he murmurs, more to himself than to you. "you have an effect on me. i haven't decided if i like it."
he does like it. he just won't admit it.
then his red side, is just filled with hungry
desperate and consuming when his eyes are red, he thinks about you constantly. not in a gentle way. not in a sweet, sentimental, pierrot-style yearning. in a hungry way. in a way that makes his hands shake and his breath catch and his teeth ache.
he thinks about the way you sound when he's inside you, you know the gasps, the moans, the way you say his name like it's the only word you remember.
he thinks about the way you feel, just warm and soft and alive beneath his hands, around his fingers, under him. he thinks about the way you look at him,, not with fear, not with disgust, but with trust. with want. with something that looks dangerously close to love.
and these episodes? they're distracting.
he'll be in the middle of something, like watering his plants, organizing his specimens, listening to the radio and suddenly his mind is full of you. full of images he can't shake. full of sounds he can't unhear.
he'll find himself staring at nothing, red eyes glowing, his work forgotten in his hands.
“…shit,” he'll mutter, shaking his head. but he doesn't stop thinking about you.
he just can't.
and eventually, after an hour, after a day, after however long he can force himself to wait, he'll go find you.
not because he wants to. because he needs to, the hunger is too loud and the only thing that quiets it is you.
"you're distracting," he'll say, pushing you against the nearest surface. "i can't focus. i can't think. all i can do is—"
his mouth finds your throat. his hands find your hips. his body presses against yours like he's trying to crawl inside your skin.
"—this."
and you'll let him. because his eyes are red and his voice is desperate and somewhere underneath all that hunger, he's still him. still your doctor. still the monster who looks at you like you're the only thing keeping him sane.
"inefficient," he'll breathe against your collarbone. "this is so inefficient."
but he doesn't stop and neither do you.
z = zone
what are their erogenous zones? where do they love to be touched?
doctor is... sensitive. more than he lets on. more than he'd ever admit.
his body is a map of places that make him shiver, and he's spent years pretending they don't exist. ignoring them. studying them like they belong to someone else.
but with you? with you? he can't hide.
1. his throat
the doctor's throat is achingly sensitive. the column of it, long and pale, where his pulse beats just beneath the surface. when you kiss him there, like when you drag your lips down the side of his neck, when you bite just hard enough to leave a mark—his breath catches. his hands tighten on your waist. his eyes shining red.
"again," he breathes. "do that again."
and when you do, when you suck a bruise into the space just below his jaw, he’ll makes a sound, strangled and desperate.
"fascinating," he murmurs, but his voice is shaking. "i didn't know i could —"
he doesn't finish the sentence. he's too busy pulling you closer.
2. his hands
specifically, the spaces between his fingers. the webs of skin that stretch when he spreads them wide. when you press your mouth there, when you kiss each knuckle, when you suck one of his fingers into your mouth and look at him while you do it—his whole body tenses.
"what are you—" his voice cracks as you swirl your tongue around his finger. his hips twitch. "...doing," he finishes, barely audible.
"research," you say, popping his finger out of your mouth. "you're not the only one who gets to study things."
his eyes are red now. fully red. and he's staring at you like you've just rewritten every hypothesis he's ever had.
3. his inner thighs
this one is cruel. and you know it. and he knows you know it.
his thighs are a battlefield. the skin there is just nice and thick, somehow more delicate and responsive.
when you kiss the inside of his thigh, when you drag your tongue up the soft skin, when you bite just hard enough to make him flinch, he falls apart.
"you're torturing me," he says, voice strained.
"is it working?"
his eyes are red. his chest is heaving. his hands are fisted in the sheets. "yes sweeite.”
so you keep going. you kiss and bite and lick until he's trembling beneath you, until he's begging for more.
"please," he gasps. "please, i can’t—“
"you can."
"i can’t—“
you press your mouth to the spot where his thigh meets his hip. he bucks off the bed.
"...okay," he breathes. "maybe i can."
sooo, in summarized about doctor!
and that was exhausting. (this took me four days to write and to figure out with numerous amounts of research, so rusty at this 😭)
but there you have it, everyones precious doctor, laid bare.
every kink, every quirk, every fascinating contradiction.
now if you'll excuse me, i have assisting I need to return to, the usual paperwork and to prepare for next time. take care of yourself, plaything. and maybe... maybe go thank the doctor for being so interesting.
p.s. if you actually send this to him, he'll probably study it. take notes. categorize.
...do it. i want to see what happens.
♤ — 𝓉𝒻𝒸 𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓎𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉
iyayadonna, all rights reserved. — ⋆˚ ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ꩜ 。⋆ .ᐟ
ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ── Ink spun from my own fingertips—please don’t take, mirror, or rewrite it.
✑ 𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: So yeah… You've been gone for months.
Not like forever. Just... away for a bit. You told them you needed space. Adult stuff. Life Stuff. Responsibilities that didn't involve a bunch of monsters. they respected it. well, tried to. pierrot left like seventeen tearful voicemails. But weeks turned into months. Texts stopped. Visits stopped. and somewhere along the way, you stopped explaining and just... vanished.
They've had enough and they will not leave until you are given the attention you deserve.
✑ 𝓌𝒸: 5.8k
✑ 𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓈: oneshot/s · tfc x gn! reader · hurt/comfort · fluff and angst · emotional hurt/comfort · burnout · depression · established relationship · post-avoidance.
Life has been... life-ing.
If that's even a word. (it's not.) Lately, these days, everything feels chaotic and unpredictable and just... too much.
You've been busy, like legitimately busy. Just dealing with things that required you to stay away from the circus for a while. you can't just live there like some monster who doesn't have real-world responsibilities.
You have a life. Or, you had one.
You switched from full-time to part-time at the coffee shop so you could focus on school. Exams got thrown at your face repeatedly—irritating doesn't even begin to cover it. but now the exams are done. everything should be over.
You should be resting. Recovering from your busy lifestyle.
At least maybe even feeling good.
But every morning, you wake up and you just... don't move.
You’re aware of it, vaguely. The way your body feels heavy, like someone filled your bones with wet sand while you were sleeping. the way your phone is always in your hand before you've even decided to pick it up. the way hours pass and you've done nothing but scroll and blink and exist.
Your boss has noticed. Fuck.
“You okay?" He asked last week, eyes scanning your face like they were looking for something you'd lost. “You seem... rather tired."
“Just busy," you said, and you almost believed it.
they asked again yesterday. “Seriously, are you sleeping? eating? you look—" He stopped himself, however, you heard the word they didn't say.
Empty. Stuck. Motionless. I’m fine," Which you always say.
Same words. Same tone. Same lie.
You know you're not fine. You know that. But acknowledging it feels like opening a door you're not ready to walk through. So you ignore it. You ignore the way your energy drains faster than it used to. You ignore the way getting out of bed feels like climbing a mountain. You ignore your boss's concerned glances and the way they leave an extra pastries by your bag every shift now—just in case you haven't eaten.
You ignore it because ignoring is easier.
Because if you didn't ignore it, you'd have to admit that something is wrong. And admitting that means dealing with it. And dealing with it means... what?
Therapy? Medication? Talking to someone? Changing?
You don't have the energy for any of that.
Causing your boss eventually stopped asking. Instead, he just... gave you time off. a week, then two, then three. "take as long as you need," he said, with that same worried look you kept pretending not to see.
He figured, like maybe hoped that staying home would help. that rest would pull you out of whatever hole you'd fallen into.
So you stay home. You live in and out of your bed. some days you're awake enough to sit on the couch. most days you're not.
Every now and then, someone comes to check on you. A friend. a family member. someone who cares enough to show up unannounced.
You don't have the energy to be annoyed—again you don't have the energy for much of anything—but you also don't want them to worry. So you clean. Just enough to make your space look lived-in instead of caved-in. You shower. You put on clean clothes.
You play pretend.
“I’m good,” you say, same as always. “Just tired. exams took a lot out of me."
They nod. they leave. and the second the door closes, you're back in bed, phone in hand.
All you want is to be alone. all you want is to scroll. to disappear into the glow of the screen where nothing matters and no one expects anything from you.
Your handheld game helps, sometimes. one of your friends bought it for you as a congratulations gift—"you finished your exams! you earned this!"—a wildly popular life simulation series where you populate a bustling, personalized island with mii avatars of yourself, family, friends, or fictional characters.
You act as an god like caretaker, watching these little digital people interact, fall in love, fight, perform concerts, navigate bizarre daily dramas.
It was supposed to be fun, relaxing, a reward for once.
Now it just feels like another task. another thing you should be doing. Another reason to feel guilty when you don't.
You even listen to music, too. Your favorite artist. The same songs on repeat, over and over, hoping to feel something. A spark of the person you used to be before everything got so heavy.
But at last, nothing comes.
Just the same boring numbness. Same hollow ache. You're lying there, thumb hovering over your phone screen, when you hear it.
A knock. Soft, but definitely there. Weird thing is—it's not coming from your front door. It's coming from your balcony window.
"What the hell…?" You freeze. Your heart does this weird thing—not panic exactly, but something like recognition. Because normal people don't knock on balcony windows. Normal people can't even reach a third-floor balcony.
You turn your head slow.
And there's a silhouette on the other side of the glass.
Tall. Familiar. Just... waiting for you to open up.
✑ 𝓅𝒾𝑒𝓇𝓇𝑜𝓉
“…Pierrot?"
Your eyes watch the figure on the balcony moves, seeing a shift of weight and tilt of the head. Enough for you to recognize that shape anywhere—just a too-tall frame, slump of his shoulders, the way he holds himself like he's always bracing for bad news.
You set your phone down then swing your legs over the side of the bed. Your body feels heavy, each step toward the balcony window an effort, close like wading through water.
The lock sticks for a few secoud, you haven't opened this door in weeks, no truly months. But it finally gives, and the late afternoon air hits your face, cool and sharp, and there he is.
Just standing on your third-floor balcony like it's the most natural thing in the world. His white masked face is even paler than usual under the dim city lights, and his starry eyes—those beautiful, swirling eyes—are wide and wet and devastated.
“My dear," he breathes.
And then he's moving, crossing the small space between you in one long stride, and his hands are cupping your face before you can say anything, his cool fingers trembling against your cheeks.
“We thought you were dead," he whispers. his voice cracks on the last word. “We… )-I thought—when you stopped answering, when the days turned to weeks, we thought something had happened to you. we thought you'd left me forever."
HIs eyes search your face, and you watch the worry settle into his features like a physical weight. Those now starry pupils flicker as they take in everything—such as the dark bruises under your eyes, the unnatural lightness of your skin, the way your cheeks look slightly hollowed out like you haven't been eating enough.
His gaze drops to your hoodie (the same one from three days ago, you can't remember the last time you changed), then to the room behind you, displaying a dim, messy, stuck look, then back to your face.
“And you were just..." his voice cracks. tears spill over, tracking silver lines down his powdered cheeks. “You were just… scrolling?"
You open your mouth. the excuse is already there, the same one you've been giving everyone: i'm fine, just tired, exams took a lot out of me, i just need rest—
Pierrot shakes his head before you can even say it. “No," he whispers. “Don't. Please don't lie to me. i can see you, my dear. You're not fine."
You close your mouth.
He steps closer, his cool large hands finding yours again, holding them like they're something precious. “You look..." he trails off, searching for words. “Dim. like someone turned down your light. like you're fading."His lower lip trembles just a bit
“Please. Tell me what's wrong. I don't understand the things you humans go through, but I want to. I need to. because seeing you like this—" his voice drops to barely a whisper. "it's breaking me."
You don't have an answer.
You don't have words for what's been happening inside your head. Burnout? Depression? Exhaustion? All you know is that you've been stuck and numb and tired in a way that sleep can't fix.
Pierrot doesn't wait for you to figure it out.
He pulls you into his chest again, but this time he doesn't let go. his arms wrap around you tight—not painfully, but firmly, like he's afraid you'll dissolve if he loosens his grip.
His face presses into your hair, and you feel him breathing you in, shaky and desperate. “I’ve got you," he murmurs against your head. “I don't know what's happening, but i've got you. you don't have to explain. you don't have to do anything. Just... let me hold you."
You were still there for a long moment, limp in his arms, letting him support your weight. and slowly—so slowly—you feel something unfreeze in your chest.
He starts moving you toward the bed. not pushing, not dragging, just... guiding. His long body curls around yours as he pulls you onto the mattress, arranging the pillows behind your head, tugging the blanket up over both of you.
“Pierrot, what are you—"
“Shh." he tucks you against his side, one arm wrapped securely around your waist, the other coming up to stroke your hair. “We're going to stay here. in this bed. and you're going to rest, and I’m going to hold you, mayebe later I can cook for you and eventually—" he presses a kiss to your forehead.
“Eventually, you're going to feel better."
“You don't know that."
“I believe it," he says softly. "and sometimes that's enough."
He doesn't understand burnout. Doesn't know the word for it, doesn't have a framework for the way modern life drains the life out of people. But he understands sadness. He understands exhaustion. He understands what it feels like to be so tired that moving your body feels impossible.
So he holds you. His fingers trace gentle patterns on your back. his chest rises and falls against yours. And every few minutes, he whispers something soft and reassuring into your hair.
“You're safe."
“I’m here."
“You don't have to be anything right now."
His starry eyes never leave your face, even as the minutes stretch into an hour. he watches you like you're the most precious thing in the world—like he's memorizing every detail, every breath, every small sign that you're still here.
“Pierrot?"
“Yes, my dear?"
“…Thank you. For coming."
Your felt his arms tighten around you. “Always," he whispers. “Always, always, always." And for the first time in weeks, you close your eyes and let yourself be held.
✑ 𝒽𝒶𝓇𝓁𝑒𝓆𝓊𝒾𝓃
“What the fuc… Harlequin?”
You whisper his name before you even open the door, and Harlequin's silhouette goes still. “…What?"
“Uh, just... come in."
You slide the door open, and he steps inside like he owns the place—because of course he does, it’s him. You notice his neon green eyes sweep across your apartment, taking in the dim lighting, the messy blankets, the general stagnation of it all. But instead of concern, his face splits into that familiar, jagged grin.
“Well, well, well," he purrs, dropping onto your couch like a cat claiming a sunbeam. “The human seems alive or, well… enough. Same difference."
You sit back down on your bed, phone already finding its way back into your hand.
“So,” he drawls, kicking his feet up on your coffee table. "you gonna explain why you've been ignoring me? or are we just pretending the last few months didn't happen?"
“I wasn't ignoring you—"
“Oh, really?" he pulls out his own phone, scrolling with one claw. “Because i've sent you... let's see... forty-seven reels. FORTY-SEVEN. and you haven't reacted to a SINGLE one."
You open your mouth. Then close it.
The truth is, you've watched every single one.
You couldn't not watch them—harlequin has a way of knowing when you've seen his messages. but the things he sends you are... cursed. Like, genuinely deranged. Last week he sent you a video of a raccoon riding a roomba while wearing a tiny cowboy hat, set to dramatic classical music. The week before that, it was a compilation of geese committing what could only be described as war crimes.
You weren't sure if you were depressed or just terrified of birds now.
“I watched them," you mumble.
“Oh yeah? Then why didn't you react?"
“Because I don't know how to react to a goose stealing someone's sandwich."
Harlequin snorts. “That's fair. That one was art."
You fall into something almost comfortable—him sprawled on your couch, you curled on your bed, both of you on your phones. This is normal for you two. parallel play, he calls it. existing in the same space without being annoying about it.
Except.
Except you stop responding to his commentary. Your thumb keeps scrolling, and scrolling, and scrolling. reels blur together. cats, memes, a video essay about something you don't care about. Harlequin says something—a joke, maybe, or a sex joke—and you hum in response, not really hearing him.
“Hello? Earth to the human who's been ignoring me for months?"
You don't look up.
“Okay, that's—" he cuts himself off then you hear him stand feel the bed shift just a bit as he moves. Suddenly his hand is on your phone, tugging it gently but firmly out of your grip. “Hey—"
“No."
You look up. Harlequin is standing over you, your phone in one hand, his neon eyes fixed on your face. and for the first time since he arrived, he really looks at you.
The grin fades while his head tilts—catlike, curious, assessing. his gaze traces the dark circles under your eyes, the way your shoulders slump, the hollow emptiness in your expression that you've been hiding from mirrors.
“You look..." he pauses, searching for words. “Bad. like, really bad. When's the last time you slept?"
“I sleep."
“That's not what I asked, little thing.” Still, you don't answer.
One of Harlequin's tendrills flicks behind him—a nervous habit he'd never admit to. He looks at your phone, then back at you, then at your phone again. something shifts in his expression.
Something almost like... guilt?
“Was it the reels?" he asks, quieter than usual. “Did I… was I the reason you—"
“No.” and for once, you're being honest. “It's not you. I’ts… everything. I’ve just been stuck." He stares at you for a long moment. Then, without a word, he shoves your phone into his pocket. Sits down on the bed beside you. Like Close, very close than he normally would.
“Okay," he says.
“…Okay?"
“Okay, you're stuck. Okay, you've been ignoring me. Okay, you look like a sad, wilted lettuce." he bumps his shoulder against yours. “I’m still here, aren't I? I’m not going anywhere."
You lean into him without meaning to. One of his tendrills curls around you. “You're gonna be fine," he mutters, almost to himself. “You're annoyingly resilient. it's one of your few good qualities."
“I have other good qualities."
“Name three."
“…I’m not doing this right now." He laughs—soft, real, nothing bitter about it. And for a little while, neither of you moves.
✑ 𝒿𝑒𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇
“The hell, Jester…?”
You whisper his name through the glass, and for a long moment, nothing happens.
He doesn't move, speak, just stands there, massive and still, like a statue someone forgot to finish. you almost think you imagined it—the knock, the shape, the whole thing—when his voice finally cuts through the night.
“You took longer than expected to open."
it's not a complaint. not really. just an observation, delivered in that low, resonant tone that makes your bones feel weird. You slide the door open, and Jester steps inside.
He doesn't say anything at first. just stands there in the middle of your tiny apartment, taking it in. The messy bed. the scattered snack wrappers. The phone in your hand, screen still glowing.
His purple eyes, just sharp, steady, ancient eyes—sweep across everything in your place. When he finally speaks, his voice is low and resonant, each word deliberate. “So this is what modern humans consider meaningful existence. Staring at box of light. Ignoring the living world.” He crosses his arms, and you feel the full weight of his judgment pressing down on you.
You should probably say something. Defend yourself at least. Explain your poor behavior. But your throat feels tight, and his presence is a lot, and all you can manage is a weak, "...hi."
One of his eyebrows lifts. just slightly. just enough. “Hi," he repeats, like the word is foreign. like he's testing it on his tongue. “You disappear for months. you stop responding to all forms of communication. You let me believe—" he pauses, something flickering across his face too fast to read. “And all you have to say is hi?"
You shift your weight, just a bit. “I didn't know what else to say."
"the truth is usually a good starting point."
You don't have the truth. Not one you can put into words, anyway. So you just stand there, phone still in your hand, and let him look at you.
He does, like for a long time.
And then he unexpectedly moves. Well not toward you. Toward your kitchen funny enough. You watch, baffled, as the jester—massive, purple, terrifying jester opens your cabinets. Peers inside. Closes them. opens your fridge. makes a sound somewhere between a sigh and a hum.
“You have no food," he states.
"i have... some food."
“You have instant noodles and expired yogurt." he turns to face you, arms still crossed. “This is not food. This is desperation or a cry for help.”
Vefore you can respond, he's pulling out his phone—a sleek, expensive-looking thing that seems too small for his hands—and typing something with practiced efficiency.
“What are you doing?"
“Ordering groceries."
“You… you can't just—"
“I can," he says, not looking up. “I am. Watch Me.”
And you do. you watch the most intimidating monster you've ever met stand in your messy kitchen and order you groceries like it's the most natural thing in the world.
When he's done, he pockets his phone and turns to you, expression unreadable. “You're going to eat," he says. "real food. more than once a day. i will ensure this."
“You don't have to—"
“I am aware that I don't have to. I am choosing to." his purple eyes meet yours. “There is a difference."
You don't know what to say to that, so you say nothing. He looks at your bed, all of the the rumpled blankets, the pillow you've been hugging for warmth and then back at you.
“When's the last time you slept? Truly slept? not the restless, nightmare-ridden version you've been enduring."
You blink, "how do you know about—"
“I’ve notice things." he says it simply. like it's obvious. "you have dark circles beneath your eyes. your posture has collapsed. your energy is... dim than before.” a pause. "you are not well."
It's not a question. “I’m just tired," you try.
“You are exhausted, burned out. there is a difference." he moves toward you—slowly, carefully, like you're a wild animal he doesn't want to spook. “And you are not going to fix it by staring at that device."
He gestures at your phone, still clutched in your hand.
"Give it to me."
“What? no—"
“Give me the phone, little human."
There's something in his voice—not a command, exactly. more like... an invitation. like he's offering to carry something too heavy for you. And maybe it's the exhaustion. maybe it's the numbness. maybe it's just that he's him.
But you hand it over.
He takes it gently, like surprisingly gently and sets it on your dresser, face down. “There," he says. “Now you have no choice but to exist in the present moment."
“That’s… terrifying."
“Good. Fear is motivating."
He sits on the edge of your bed, which it creaks under his weight and pats the space beside him. “Come. sit. tell me what has happened to you. or don't. Either way, you are not going to be alone in this room tonight."
You hesitate then you sit.
His presence is huge and warm and solid, and somehow, despite everything, you… feel something loosen in your chest.
“To be honest… I don't know what's wrong with me," you admit quietly.
“Nothing is wrong with you," he says, and his voice is softer now. almost gentle. “You are a human experiencing human things. Burnout. Exhaustion. The crushing weight of existence." he glances at you. “It happens. it passes. and in the meantime..." he shifts, draping an arm across your shoulders—heavy, grounding. “You’ll have to deal with me.”
“I disappeared for months."
“And I found you." he says it like it's obvious. like there was never any other option. “I will always find you."
You lean into him without meaning to. Again, surprisingly, he lets you. And for the first time in weeks, you don't feel quite so alone.
✑ 𝓉𝒾𝒸𝓀𝑒𝓉 𝓉𝒶𝓀𝑒𝓇
“Wha.. Ticket Taker…?”
You whisper his name, and the silhouette on your balcony straightens. instantly. like he's been waiting for permission to exist.
You slide the door open, and Ticket Taker steps inside. His eye don't wander. they scan. every corner, every surface, every crumpled blanket and discarded wrapper. his expression is unreadable—that perfect, black-and-white symmetrical mask he wears like armor.
But you see the tension in his jaw. The way his hands clasp just a little tighter behind his back. “You didn't show up," he says. No greeting, nor small talk. Just facts.
“I know—"
“To work. To the circus. TO anything." His voice is clipped, controlled, but there's something underneath it. Something that might be hurt, or anger or both. “You failed to appear. Repeatedly. Without notice. Without explanation."
You open your mouth. close it.
he pulls out a small notebook—the one he always carries, the one filled with your schedule, your preferences, your existence filed away in neat, precise handwriting. he flips through it, not looking at you.
“Your screen time has increased by approximately 400% since your departure," he states, adding on, “sleep deprivation is evident. your circadian rhythm appears to have collapsed entirely." his eyes flick to your fridge—you forgot to close it earlier. "nutritional intake is minimal. inadequate. frankly, embarrassing."
He closes the notebook with a snap.
“This is unsustainable. Even for an human, I will be implementing restrictions immediately."
"Restrictions?"
“ON your device usage. on your sleep schedule. on your diet." he finally looks at you, and his gaze is sharp. disappointed. "you have disappointed me."
the words hit harder than you expect.
“I didn't—"
“You didn't show up." his voice cracks, just slightly. just enough. "you didn't show up, and you didn't tell me why. I had to infer. I had to calculate. do you know how many variables I had to account for because you wouldn't simply communicate?"
You don't answer.
He paces—short, sharp movements, like a caged animal. “I have been maintaining everything, hoping and preparing for your return, assuming there would be a return." he stops, faces you. “And then i find you here. In this state. Living like..." he gestures at the room, at you, at everything. “Like this."
“Like what exactly?"
“Like someone who has given up."
The words hang in the air between the both of you.
And something in his expression just changes, a little softens, just a fraction. He looks at you, see him notice the dark circles, the hollow cheeks, the way your shoulders slump like you're carrying something too heavy.
He exhales as a hand through his hair already slick black hair—which is a rare tell, man’s was worried about you.
“…I’m pushing too hard," he says quietly, not a question more like observation.
You don't confirm or deny. You just stand there.
He sits on the edge of your bed—perched, really, like he's afraid of wrinkling his suit. his hands rest on his knees. he looks almost... uncertain. “Let's start smaller," he says. “Carefully. one thing at a time."
He pats the space beside him. “Sit.” which you do.
He doesn't touch you—he never initiates touch, not really—but he's close. closer than usual. his presence is solid, steady, there.
“Tell me," he says. “How do you feel?" It's such a simple question. and you don't have an answer. not one that fits into words.
“I don't know," you admit.
He nods, like that's acceptable. like he was expecting it. "then tell me what you do know."
You think about it. "i'm tired."
“Obviously."
“Like... bone tired. Mentally, the kind of tired that sleep doesn't fix."
He's quiet for a moment. then: “Continue."
“I haven't been eating. or... I have, but not enough. not the right things." you glance at him. “You noticed."
“I notice everything." his voice is softer now. less sharp. “It's what I do."
“Yeah."
Silence but like it's not uncomfortable. It's the kind of silence that happens when someone is actually listening. “I miss the circus," you hear yourself say. “I miss... everyone. I just didn't know how to come back."
He turns to look at you. Now those cool, calculating eyes—but there's warmth there, hidden underneath.
“You're here now," he says. "that's a start."
He pulls out his notebook again—but this time, when he opens it, he doesn't start calculating. he just... holds it. like he's waiting.
“I’m going to help you," he says. “Whether you want me to or not. i'm going to make a schedule. I’m going to ensure you eat. i'm going to monitor your sleep. and eventually—" he meets your eyes. “Eventually, you're going to feel like yourself again."
“You can't know that."
“I can." he says it simply. “I’ve calculated the variables. the probability of recovery is high. provided you cooperate."
You almost smile. Almost. "...and if i don't cooperate?"
His lips twitch—the closest he ever gets to a smile. "Then i will be very persistent. you know this about me."
You do.
He stands, straightens his cuffs and looks down at you with something that might be fondness, if you squint. “We'll start tomorrow," he says. "Today, you rest. I’ll stay." He sits back down.
Doesn't touch you but his shoulder is close enough that you could lean on it, if you wanted.
✑ 𝒹𝑜𝒸𝓉𝑜𝓇
“Is that, Doctor??”
You whisper-yelled his name through the glass with confusion, not expecting an answer.
You're about to call out again when you remember—oh. Right. This is Doctor. He doesn't do spontaneous visits. He doesn't leave the circus unless it's Halloween or the entire month of October when he apparently haunts the mortal realm like a goth Santa Claus.
Any other time? Good luck. He's in his greenhouse.
Talking to his ferns. Listening to heavy metal. Dissecting things that probably shouldn't be dissected.
So the figure on your balcony? On a random Friday?
You're either dreaming or he's lost.
But then he ducks because your balcony door is not small, but this man is very much tall. Like, Pirrot tall. Maybe taller. His horns scrape the top of the frame and he has to bend his neck at an angle that looks deeply uncomfortable, and you realize with a jolt that you completely forgot how big he is.
Doctor is not a man who looms. He's a man who exists in the background, in the shadows, in the spaces between things. But up close? In your tiny apartment? He takes up soo much space.
“Well,” he says, his voice that low, pleasant hum that somehow makes your skin crawl in a not-entirely-bad way. "You look awful.”
"...Hi?"
"Hm." He sets down a medical bag you didn't notice he was carrying and starts circling you. Like a shark. Like you're a specimen in a petri dish. "Pupils are dilated. Skin is pale. Posture is collapsed. When's the last time you saw the sun?”
"I don't know. Two week ago?"
“Disgraceful."
He pulls out a small penlight and shines it directly into your eyes without warning. You flinch as you heard him clicks his tongue behind his mask, "Follow the light. Don't blink. Try not to be dramtic about it, sweetie”
"I'm not being dramatic—"
"You're flinching. That's dramatic."
He makes a note on a pad that has also materialized from nowhere. His handwriting is surprisingly neat. Almost pretty. There are little botanical doodles in the margins.
"Your eyes are strained," he announces. "You've been staring at that—" he gestures at your phone, still glowing on the bed “—Rectangle for hours. In the dark. Without proper lightting.”
"I have a lamp—"
“A lamp is not sufficient for retinal health. You need ambient light. Natural light. Just light that isn't blue and screen-sourced." He pulls out a small handheld scanner—you don't even want to know where he got it—and runs it over your face. It beeps. He frowns.
"Your melatonin production is essentially non-existence. Your dopamine receptors are fried. Your circadian rhythm is destroyed." He looks up at you, cyan eyes sharp. "You've turned your brain into much.”
"Wow. Thanks…”
"You're welcome." He pockets the scanner and tilts his head, studying you the way he studies anything else.
"Here's the thing, sweetie," he says, stepping closer. He doesn't ask permission. He just... occupies space. "I don't do interventions. I don't do heartfelt speeches. I don't do whatever Pierrot does—the crying, the clinging, the I thought you were dead theatrics." He waves a hand vaguely, like he's shooing away a fly. "Exhausting. All of it."
"You came all the way here though."
"I did." He says it simply. Like it's obvious. Like of course he did. "Because you're interesting, and interesting specimens don't just get to... wither. That's wasteful."
He pulls a small glass vial from his bag—something pale blue and faintly glowing. "This is a tincture. Herbal. I made it myself. It won't fix you, nothing fixes anything, not really but it'll help your body remember how to sleep. Real sleep. The kind where your brain actually resets."
He presses it into your palm. His fingers are cool, much larger than your own. "Drink it before bed. Not with your phone in your hand. Not with the screen glowing in your face. Just... close your eyes and exist in the dark for a while."
"This isn't going to turn me into a frog, is it?"
"Don't be ridiculous." A pause. "Frogs require a much higher dosage."
You stare at him. He stares back, completely deadpan.
"...That was a joke."
"Ah. Well. I can see that."
"Was it funny?"
You didn't have the heart to answer. Just looked away.
He followed your gaze, glancing around your apartment agaia—the rumpled blankets, the scattered wrappers, the general stagnation of it all. His mask made his expression hard to read, but something in his voice softened. Just slightly. Just enough.
"You've been existing, not living," he said quietly. "There's a difference. I know you know that."
Again, you didn't answer.
He didn't push. Instead, he moved toward you, not looming this time, just... present. Close enough that you could smell the dried lavender and chamomile clinging to his coat.
"You're not a failed experiment," he said, tilting his head. "You're not a specimen that's been left on a shelf to collect dust. You're just... unwatered. Like my ferns when I forget to open the greenhouse blinds."
"...Are you comparing me to a plant?"
"I'm saying plants don't choose to wilt. They just don't have what they need." His cyan eyes held yours. "You haven't had what you need either. That's not a moral failure. It's just... a missing variable."
You blinked. "That's... surprisingly gentle. For you."
"I have my moments." He pulled a small glass vial from his bag, pale blue, faintly glowing, and pressed it into your palm. His fingers were cool, dry, steady. "This will help. Not because I'm kind, but because I don't like watching interesting things wither. It's inefficient."
"You could just say you care."
"I could." He didn't. But he also didn't move away.
The silence stretched between you, not uncomfortable, just... full. Like something had been waiting to be said, and neither of you knew how to say it.
"I don't sleep much," he said finally, quieter than before. "I listen to music. I check on my plants. I... could sit with you. If you wanted."
"...You?"
"Surprised?"
"A little."
He almost smiled. Almost. "So am I."
He didn't leave immediately. Instead, he stood there for a moment longer, his presence solid and steady.
"You should drink that before bed," he said, nodding at the vial in your hand. "Preferably in the dark. Preferably without your phone. And preferably..." he paused, something unreadable wavering across his masked face. "Preferably not alone."
"...Is that an instruction or an invitation?"
"Yes."
You huffed something that might have been a laugh. It felt strange in your chest.
He turned toward the balcony, his silhouette massive against the dim light. His horns scraped the top of the doorframe again, and he ducked with that same awkward grace, pausing at the threshold.
"If you need anything," he said, not looking back, "I'm in the greenhouse. Or the tent. Or... somewhere. You know how to find me."
And then he was gone, leaving behind a faint scent of dried herbs, cool earth, and something that might have been chamomile.
You looked down at the vial in your hand. And for the first time in weeks, you thought maybe you weren't as alone as you felt.
♤ — 𝓉𝒻𝒸 𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓎𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉
iyayadonna, all rights reserved. — ⋆˚ ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ꩜ 。⋆ .ᐟ
How far do you think pierrot’s love extends when it comes to making them happy or keeping them healthy?
Like, say MC had a binge eating disorder. Since pierrot loves to bake, especially for MC, and MC takes advantage of that, how would Pierrot react?
Like sweets once in a while are perfectly find, but when MC has an ED and eats Pierrot’s baking/cooking until the point where it gets super unhealthy, would he make MC stop? Or would his desire to make MC happy overpower any health concerns
Sorry if this is a bit uncomfortable to talk about, i was just curious on your opinion ◡̈
❝You are asking… about a very dangerous-dangerous trap, pretty plaything.❞
ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ── Ink spun from my own fingertips—please don’t take, mirror, or rewrite it.
꩜ Warning: angst/fluff, sweetly intimate ── ᓭི༏ᓯྀ
hello there dearest ask! it's me! well poppet. or inkyette, if you still remember that name. lots of changes, lots of stitching myself back together, but i'm here now. taking over for a bit as our lovely writer slowly gets back into writing.
she's been working hard, and finally in a good place mentally—which means she's got the energy to write again. lucky you.
so let's talk about pierrot.
now starting, that's a good question. a really good one. because on the surface, it seems simple, right? pierrot loves baking. mc loves eating his baking. everyone's happy.
but you and i both know that's not how eating disorders work.
well… it works is a simple sense, but everybody knows that disorder such as this is never simple and not easy to handle.
so let me break this down for you, because i've watched him. i've been in that circus longer than you have. i've seen the way his starry eyes track you across the room. i've felt the weight of his gaze when he thinks no one is looking.
and spoiler alert? he's always looking.
in summary, by now, we all know pierrot operates from a place of deep, unhealed attachment trauma. we're talking reactive attachment disorder territory, mixed with some pretty severe abandonment issues and a nice sprinkle of obsessive-compulsive tendencies that he's never learned to manage.
so, he doesn't understand the word… casual.
he doesn't understand "i'll see you tomorrow" because tomorrow isn't guaranteed. not to him.
the reason why because pierrot's primary love language is acts of service. specifically, cooking. when he bakes for the mc—YOU, he's not just making dessert. he's saying "i love you." he's saying "i want to take care of you." he's saying "please don't leave me."
so when the MC eats his food—eats all of it, eats too much of it, eats until it hurts so pierrot doesn't see a disorder. he sees validation.
every bite is affirmation. every empty plate is proof that he's needed. that he's good at something. that he's not worthless.
here's where it gets complicated. pierrot is obsessive, yes. he's possessive, yes. but he's not stupid. he's not blind. he notices things. he notices when the mc's hands shake. he notices when they disappear into the bathroom after a meal. he notices when they laugh too brightly and say "i'm fine" in a voice that means anything but.
and dearest ask, that noticing? it terrifies him.
because on one hand, if he stops baking, he loses his primary way of connecting with the MC. he loses the smiles, the thanks, the quiet moments where they eat his brigadeiros and look at him like he's done something wonderful.
but on the other hand, if he keeps baking, he might be hurting them. and pierrot would rather die than hurt someone he loves.
so what does he actually do?
well, in the short and recap answer.
❝Pierrot's love is a beautiful, terrifying tragedy. He does not know how to hold a string without pulling until it snaps. If you take advantage of his baking to hurt yourself… he would not see the sickness at first. He would only see that you are devouring what he makes, and his broken-broken heart would mistake that hunger for love. He wants so desperately to be needed. He would keep baking… and baking… and filling the plate.❞
❝But the moment he realizes his hands are the ones feeding your destruction? The moment he sees he is making you unhealthy? He would shatter. He would stop baking instantly. He would lock the kitchen, hide the sugar, and likely weep into his apron. His desire to make you happy is massive… but his fear of losing another person he loves to the darkness is much, much bigger. He would force you to stop, even if it meant you hated him for it.❞
don’t believe me?
let's say you're been doing this for weeks, months.
It starts, as most things with pierrot do, with brigadeiros.
You're in his tent. The familiar smell of chocolate and condensed milk wraps around you like a blanket. he's humming, like soft, melodic, something you don't recognize—as he rolls the little truffles in chocolate sprinkles.
“For you, my dear," he says, presenting the plate like an offering.
You take one. It's good. It's always good. The sweetness melts on your tongue, and for a moment, everything is simple.
“Another?" his starry eyes are bright and hopeful.
You should say no. Your body and mind is already whispering warnings but his face crumbles at the slightest hesitation, so you take another, another, and another.
You lose count after five.
Pierrot is beaming now, like his whole posture has softened, shoulders loose, hands fluttering with happiness. “You like them," he breathes. “You really like them."
You do like them. That's the problem.
Later, you're in the bathroom. Your stomach aches and throat burns. You stare at your reflection and wonder when food stopped being fuel and started being a battlefield.
Pierrot doesn't know.
Except he does. Sort of.
Well, he notices that you only eat when he's watching. he notices that you push food around your plate when you think he's distracted. he notices the way your eyes flick to the exit after every meal, like you're calculating the fastest route to somewhere private.
He doesn't understand what he's seeing but he knows it's wrong. "my dear," he says one evening, after you've barely touched the coxinha he spent hours making. "did i... do something wrong?"
You look up at his starry eyes are dim. not voids—not yet—but close. "no," you say. "it's not you."
“Then what is it?"
And you don't have an answer. Not one you're ready to give.
so you lie. "i'm just not hungry."
Pierrot nods slowly but his hands are shaking when he clears the plate.
Then the breaking point comes few days later.
You're not sure why. Maybe it's the way he's been watching you more closely. Maybe it's the way your jeans fit differently. maybe it's just that secrets have weight, and you've been carrying this one for too long.
You're sitting at his table. There's a plate of macarons in front of you—his latest attempt, delicate and colorful and perfect.
you take one. Then another. Then how about three more?
Pierrot's eyes go wide. “My dear—"
“I know," you say, and your voice sounds strange, a bit detached like you're listening to someone else speak. “I know I shouldn't but I can't stop."
“Why would you want to stop?" he asks, genuinely confused. “You’re eating. that's... that's good, isn't it?"
You laugh, it comes out broken. “No, pierrot. it's not good. iI’s never been good."
His face crumples. “I don't understand."
And this where you tell him. Not everything. Not the worst parts to freak him out but enough for him to handle and understand.
You tell him about the numbers, the calculations, the way you measure your worth in calories consumed and calories burned. You tell him about the guilt that follows every bite, the shame that curls in your stomach like a living thing.
You tell him that you love his food—like you absolutely do but you also hate it because loving it means wanting it. And wanting it means eating it.
And eating it means… hating yourself.
Pierrot is very quiet afterwords.
When you finally look up, his eyes are voids, just black and empty, the cute golden stars have disappeared. “I did this," he whispers. “I made you sick."
“Holy shit no—"
“I kept feeding you. I kept watching you eat. I saw the signs—I think and I—“ his voice cracks. “I didn't want to see because if I saw, I might have to stop. and if I stopped, you might leave."
he covers his face with his hands and shoulders shake.
“Pierrot." you reach for him. he flinches.
“I’m a monster," he says. Not like it's new, more like he's known it all along and just didn't want to admit it. “I’m a monster and i hurt you and i—"
“Please stop." You grab his wrists to pull his hands away from his face, seeing thoes cute starry eyes are back, unstable, wet with tears.
“You didn't know," you say. “You couldn't have known. I didn't tell you."
“I should have asked."
“Maybe.” you squeeze his wrists gently. “But you know now."
He stares at you as his breath is shaky, “what do we do?"
and anon, that's the question, isn't it?
Well what was next was rather… messy.
Pierrot doesn't stop baking but he starts asking first. “Are you hungry?" not “Here, eat this." He leaves space for no. He leaves space for "maybe later." he learns to hear rejection without hearing abandonment.
You start being honest. Not all the time and not perfectly but when the numbers get too loud, you tell him where the guilt is too heavy, you let him hold you. When you can't eat, he doesn't push. He just sits with you and says "okay. we'll try again later."
Some days are good, and some days are terrible.
Some days you eat three brigadeiros and don't hate yourself for it. Some days you eat nothing and Pierrot holds your hair back while you cry about it.
He learns your triggers, the way certain textures make your throat close up. The way buffets make your brain short-circuit. The way praise around food can feel like pressure, even when it's meant kindly.
You learn his. The way he needs to be needed. The way his hands shake when he thinks he's failing. The way his love language is acts of service, and how hard it is for him to show love in other ways.
Then one random night, pierrot brings you a single brigadeiro.
“I wanted to give you more," he admits, setting the plate down carefully. “But i thought... maybe one is easier than many."
you look at the little truffle with chocolate sprinkles and soft center. Made by hands that love you.
“One is easier," you say.
You eat it slowly. savoring. when you're done, pierrot's starry eyes are bright again, not because you ate but because you're still here. because you trusted him enough to try.
“Thank you," he whispers.
“For what?"
“For letting me learn, my dear."
You don't have words for how that makes you feel. So you just reach for him and he understands immediately. Pierrot did always been good at reading the things you don't say.
He curls into you slowly, carefully, like he's asking permission with every movement. HIs long limbs fold around you, pulling you close against his chest. HIs face finds the crook of your neck first, then drifts lower, nuzzling into the soft fabric of your shirt, right over your heart.
His nose presses gently against your sternum. his breath is warm, even through the fabric. his starry eyes flutter closed, and he makes a sound, something small and content, like a sigh and a hum all at once.
“You’re warm," he murmurs against your chest. “You're always so warm. i forget, sometimes. how alive you feel."
You card your fingers through his hair. I’ts soft, a little tangled. He leans into your touch like a cat starved for affection.
“Pierrot."
“Mm?"
“You're rubbing your face on me."
“Yes." he doesn't stop. if anything, he presses closer, his cheek squishing against your chest. “Is that... not allowed?"
You huff a laugh. “I didn't say that."
“Good." his voice is muffled. “Because I was not going to stop."
You felt his arms tighten around your waist. His massive body relaxes into yours, like he's been holding himself together all day and finally doesn't have to anymore.
“I like this," he whispers. “I like being close to you. I like feeling your heartbeat. I like knowing you're real." You keep stroking his hair, watching his eyelids grow heavy.
“You're going to fall asleep," you say.
“Maybe." his voice is soft. sleepy. but then something shifts. his arms tighten again—not painfully, but firmly. Like he's anchoring himself to you. Like he's afraid you'll drift away if he doesn't hold on tight enough.
“Do you know," he murmurs against your chest, "how much i love you?"
You don't answer. You're not sure you're supposed to.
“I love you like..." he pauses, searching for words. “Like hunger. The kind that never goes away. the kind that gnaws at you even when you've just eaten."
You hand freezes in his hair.
“I love you like the famine," he continues, quieter now. "like the days when we had nothing. when columbina's bones were picked clean and we were still starving. that's how much i need you."
“Pierrot—"
“I know." he nuzzles deeper into your chest, his breath hitching. “I know that's not... healthy. I know i shouldn't say it. but you asked me once, remember? You asked me why i watch you eat. why i keep baking even when you can't finish."
You remember. You remember the way his eyes went void, even the way his voice cracked.
“It's because," he says, "when you eat, you're still here. when you eat, you're choosing to stay. And i need you to stay, my dear. I need you to stay more than I need air. More than I need food. more than I need—" his voice breaks.
“More than I need myself."
The silence stretches between you. Just heavy and tender. Wrong in so many ways, however feels almost right. You should probably say something. Tell him that's too much. That his love shouldn't feel like drowning. But your throat is tight, and his body is warm against yours, and somewhere deep down—somewhere you don't like to look, you understand exactly what he means.
Because isn't that what your eating disorder is?
A hunger that never ends?
The need to control something, anything, because the world is too big and you're too small?
“Pierrot," you say finally.
“Yes my dear?"
“That's... a lot."
He pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are wet with something that looks like terror and devotion all at once.
“I know," he whispers. “I know it's a lot. I know I’m too much. I know I should love you quietly, the way normal people do. but i don't know how." his fingers curl into the fabric of your shirt. “I only know how to love like this. Like I’m dying. Like you're the only thing keeping me alive."
You stare at him, his mask is pale in the dim light, his ruffled collar is crooked. He looks small, somehow. Even though he's massive. even though he could probably crush you without trying.
“I don't want you to love me like you're dying," you say.
“Then how?" his voice cracks. “Tell me how. I’ll do it. I’ll learn. i'll—" he swallows. “I’ll try." You take his face in your hands. his cheeks are cool. damp with tears you didn't notice him crying.
"love me like you're living," you say. “Not like you're surviving. like you're here. like you're safe. like you don't have to earn me by suffering." His breath catches.
“I don't know how to do that," he admits.
“Then we'll learn together."
His starry eyes shines, hearts. "together," he repeats, like he's tasting the word. "together." He presses his face back into your chest. not desperate this time. just... present. his arms stay wrapped around you, but they're not clinging anymore. they're holding. there's a difference.
“I love you," he says against your heart. “I love you in the hungry way and the full way and all the ways in between. i love you even when i'm doing it wrong."
You kiss the top of his head.
“I know," you say. “I love you too."
Afterwords, he doesn't fall asleep right away. He stays awake, listening to your heartbeat, tracing small patterns on your back with his fingertips. slow circles. gentle lines. like he's memorizing the shape of you beneath his hands.
Your breathing evens out first. Then your body goes slack against his. Pierrot notices the exact moment you slip under — the way your hand uncurls from his shirt, the way your pulse slows against his cheek.
He doesn't move. Instead he lies there, holding you, feeling the rise and fall of your chest. his starry eyes are open now. watching. cataloging.
“My dear," he whispers, so soft it's barely a breath.
He lifts his head just enough to look at your face. Peaceful. Relaxed. the tension you carry during the day, the furrow between your brows, the tightness in your jaw, all of it has melted away.
“You're so beautiful when you sleep," he says quietly. "you're beautiful when you're awake too. but when you're asleep..." he pauses, searching for words. "you look like you're not hurting. and that's all i've ever wanted for you."
His thumb brushes your cheek. Featherlight.
“I know I love you wrong," he admits, voice barely audible. “I know i'm too much. I know I should give you space. Let you
breathe. Let you eat or not eat without making it about me."
His eyes shines, hearts formed in his eyes.
“But I can't stop. I’ve tried. Every time I see you push food around your plate, every time i hear you in the bathroom, every time you say 'i'm fine' in that voice that means the opposite—I feel like i'm dying."
His presses his forehead to yours, then breath warm against your lips.
“So I’ll keep baking. I’ll keep watching. I’ll keep holding you like this even when you tell me i'm smothering you." a shaky exhale. "because the alternative is letting go. and i don't know how to do that. i don't think i ever will."
You shift in your sleep, mumbling something unintelligible. pierrot freezes, like he's been caught. But you don't wake up. You just curl closer, your nose pressing into his collarbone.
His arms tighten around you. Not desperate.
Just... grateful.
that's the heart of the circus, dearie. bleeding-bleeding all over the floor and calling it love.
anyway. I should probably… tuck myself back into my tent.
but don't you worry, darling thing. You'll see me soon. Once i'm finished being… revamped, stitched and improved.
❝every pin is a promise. every removal is a mercy.❞
now take care of yourself, and maybe… don't accept any homemade brigadeiros from a clown with heart-eyes!
— 𝓅𝑜𝓅𝓅𝑒𝓉 ꩜
♤ — 𝓉𝒻𝒸 𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓎𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉
iyayadonna, all rights reserved. — ⋆˚ ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ꩜ 。⋆ .ᐟ
so here’s a short update, ill be on SEMI-hiatus (CLOSED ask box; may answer a few ones i like) throughout the month of April and May will be busy with academic/research stuff, it’s the second half of exams/finals and in May I’ll be taking the MCAT.
IM BEGGING FOR THIS SPRING SEMESTER TO END.
beside that, what I posted today has been sitting in my draft, so I decided to posted it to feed y’all and to show im still here 😭
anyway, once I’m done with all my academic stuff and the summer, i deadass cannot guarantee that ill keep up consistent of writing about VNs.
meaning I straight up just wanna focus on creepypasta stuff.
so I made the decision to complete TFC with the NSFW alphabet so i can focus on Killer Chat (because that’s unfair to not write about it since the inky list is already posted and I still wanna write for a bit for that fandom)
and yeah… that’s it! sorry I don’t have much to say, or explain on, i haven’t been on social media as much since I’ve been handling irl responsibilities/relationships and studying that i had to make the sacrifices to stop writing for a bit.
anyway! next post will be creepypasta related! — yaya!
Hi hi! Hope you're doing alright! Got finished with midterms last week for the first time, and gotta say, I am BURNT out. Had to write a research analysis paper on the effects of COVID on human development, and while fun, it took all of my remaining energy with it. Hope you're doing alright on that end :')
Some updates about me are that you have inspired me to make a fanfiction account! I have never published fanfic (other than the embarrassing sans x reader fic I posted when I was like, 12... yikes), and I'm not too experienced with creative writing. Even still, I'd like to try it. :)
Anyway, I hope you're having a good week! Stay safe and hydrated 🫶
you are not the only one! 😭
here’s my updates: i know i’ve been gone quite someone but ever since i told my 1/2 exams in march, told maybe ill write over spring break—I ended up sleeping/studying the whole week. even now it’s about to be 2/2 exams then it’s finals and then MCAT.
like fives weeks until i get freedom.
IM BEGGING FOR THIS SPRING SEMESTER TO END!
those research papers are so ass too, as much i enjoy psychology/neuroscience, including pre med classes, it has took all my time, just killing me slowly.
however can’t say im burnt out—I’ve been out of the loop on tumblr/social media and differently missed a ton of updates of fandoms im in, deadass im lowkey lazy to catch up and have no time right now to get myself back into the habit.
beside academics, whenever i have free time, instead of writing, i’ve been hanging out with friends too—please don’t think y’all writer doesn’t have a life, she’s in fact has a social life and rather not spend all her free time looking at a computer screen (not ideal lifestyle). plus it’s been helping me come up with plots for future creepypasta stories (my friends read my fics too)
anyway! im glad you made a fanfic amount! i recall my first time, it was a confusing start but eventually i figure out how i wanted to design and present my work to others.
and you’re not the only one who posted embarrassing fics in my youth, I did the same on wattpad but it’s was monster high theme? no, i will not tell you the amount name, it’s so bad 😅
thanks for sending this ask, i adore when some of y’all check up on me, making sure im alive.
not a request, just a question! when the new days for tkatb come out, do you plan to play them? or are you just fully done with it overall?
hey dearie!
to answer your question, i’m fully done with tkatb.
last year, it was fun playing the visual novel and interacting with other fans in the fandom. im greatful that the game alone pushed me into writing fanfics, it also helped me though some difficult times.
im not sure if i would play the game (maybe to see geo again), truth be told ive been grew out of playing visual novels lately (beside killer chat) and been focusing irl responsibilities because i simply don’t have the time and the amount of drama and younger audience in these spaces be happening ain’t worth my time and energy to feed into.
ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ── Ink spun from my own fingertips—please don’t take, mirror, or rewrite it.
✑ 𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: You've officially started your new job. Well, your second job. Circus Runner—a title that sounds made up and probably is. But the pay is better, the hours are strange, and the coworkers are... well. You know the coworkers.
It's been a few weeks since the dear absence of the poppet, Inkyette. She's off getting upgrades—circus-speak for "being rebuilt from the stitches up." You're not entirely sure how that works. You're not entirely sure you want to know.
But while she's gone, the circus has offered you a chance to stick around. To help. To run things, whatever that means.
Turns out, it means a lot of things. You're about to learn a lot about the circus. About the ones who live here. About the one who isn't here anymore. And about yourself—and where you fit in all of it.
Welcome to the job, little scholar.
✑ 𝓌𝒸: 9.6K
✑ 𝓇𝑒𝓆𝓊𝑒𝓈𝓉: anon once again! now this one was a little tricky for me to write. it's more of intro, a new job, and tried to make sure you feel connected to the reader.
✑ 𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓈: oneshot/s · tfc x gn! reader · lil angst · found family · psychological horror undertones · domestic moments · belonging · emotional hurt/comfort.
The path to the circus looked different in daylight.
You'd walked it a hundred times before—sometimes at night or day, always with that playful voice of Inkyette's in your ear or her poppet form tucked in your bag, yapping about anything.
Yet today was different. Your new job started at noon.
A Circus Runner, they'd called it.
You still weren't entirely sure what that meant. Ticket Taker had explained it in his usual clipped, precise way—"facilitation of logistics, management of external resources, liaison between domains"—however you'd nodded along without really understanding what hell is he talking about.
What you understood was the pay.
Which is way more than the café. Significantly more. Enough that you'd put your other job on the back burner without a second thought.
"Taking fewer shifts," you'd told your boss, a kind man who'd never once complained about your strange hours or the way you sometimes talked to thin air. "Focusing on some important matters."
He'd blinked at you through the display case before standing up fully, confused but respectful. "You're not the type to just quit on people," he'd said. "So I trust you. Let me know if you need anything."
Guilt had twisted in your stomach then. Guilt that still hadn't fully faded. Because you weren't doing this for the money. Not really.
You were doing it for her. Well, for all of them.
Ahead, you saw the circus gates loomed ahead, and stopped. Now you hadn't let yourself think about her directly. Not since that night. Not since the confession and weight of everything she'd been.
But now, standing at the threshold of her home—her prison, her sanctuary, her everything—the truth crashed over you like cold water.
You never realized how much of an anchor she was.
She'd been everywhere at the circus. Not physically—she was just a poppet, just a whisper. But everywhere. In every interaction you'd had. In every moment of safety. In every laugh and every fear and every step you'd taken through this impossible place.
She was dead. But she was so, so alive.
And now she was gone.
Not forever. Not truly. As mention, Doctor working on her new body in some hidden corner of the circus, and one day she'd return, perhaps whole, real, present. But until then...
You were alone.
And somehow, impossibly, you were supposed to fill the space she'd left.
Ticket Taker was waiting.
As always, waiting, watching, there with his crisp suit, his one white eye and his ledger full of things you'd never understand. "Visitor," he greeted, the word neutral but not cold. "You're early for once.”
"Didn't want to be late on my first day."
A look of something—approval? amusement?—crossed his features. "Admirable. Follow me." He turned and walked into the circus without waiting to see if you followed.
You followed as the midway stretched before you, empty and silent in the afternoon light. No performances. No crowds. Just the skeletal frames of rides and the faded colors of tents and the weight of a thousand eyes you couldn't see.
"Your duties will be explained gradually," Ticket Taker said, not looking back. "Today, you will shadow. Observe. Learn the layout, if you haven't already." A pause. "You will also be... observed."
"By who?"
"Everyone." He said it so simply, so matter-of-factly, that it took a moment to register.
"You mean—"
"The circus is curious about you." He stopped walking, turning to face you. “The poppet, Inkyette's... attachment to you was well known. Her absence has left questions. About you. About your role. About your intentions."
"My intentions?"
"Some may ask out of curiosity. Some out of closeness. Some..." His eye flickered, eventually blue and white appeared. "Out of hate."
The word hung in the air. "Hate? Who would—"
“You’ll see. Just know you are an unknown variable. You were hers. You may believe that we have just given her to you as a gift, but that was not her purpose. That gives you status, but also target." He turned and resumed walking. “Here. You duties begin now."
He held out a folded piece of paper. "Your duties for today. Standard orientation tasks. Do not lose this."
You took it, unfolding it to reveal neat, precise handwriting in dark purple ink.
✑ DAILY ASSIGNMENTS – CIRCUS RUNNER.
Pierrot – Preparatory assistance for evening performance (Carousel, 10:30 AM)
Harlequin – Prop retrieval and setup (Game Midway, 11:45 AM)
Jester – Big top inspection (observation only) (Big Top, 1:30 PM)
Columbina – Mirror maintenance (Hall of Mirrors, after sunset)
You looked up. "This is... a lot."
"The circus does not stop because you are new. It stops for nothing." His eyes—blue and white, fixed on you. "You will learn. You will adapt. You will survive."
The word hung in the air. "And the questions?" you asked. “Everyone wanting to... know me?"
"They will ask." His voice was flat, matter-of-fact. "You will answer, or you will not. That is your choice. But they will ask. Like I mention before, Curiosity. Closeness. Love. Hate. All of the above. Be prepared."
He turned to go, then paused. "One more thing, Visitor."
"Yes?"
"You are not her. Do not try to be. She was… irreplaceable and practical.” A look of something—grief? loss?—crossed his neatly features. "But you are here. That is enough. For now. Get to your first assignment please, visitor"
He walked away before you could respond.
✑ 𝓅𝒾𝑒𝓇𝓇𝑜𝓉
Pierrot would ask with desperate, trembling hope, wanting to know if you're like… her, if you'll stay like… she did, if you'll love him the way she taught him to love.
The carousel at dusk was a different creature entirely.
The tent area was still in daylight shine—so less ghostly, more empty sine guest don’t be let in until after you’re finished. The frozen horses waited in their eternal gallop, paint faded, eyes blank.
You found Pierrot there, as the list said you would.
He stood by the white stallion—the one with the rose on its flank—running his long fingers along its mane with a tenderness that made your chest ache. He was already in his performance attire: the ruff, the traditional clown whites, the painted face that made him both beautiful and tragic.
But his mask wasn't fully on yet. Not the performance mask. This was still him—the him that existed in the spaces between shows, the him that only a few ever saw.
He turned when you approached, and his amber eye lit up. Not with the desperate void you'd seen that night at the gate, but with something softer. Something almost like hope.
"You came," he breathed, his high, melodic voice carrying across the empty space. "I wasn't certain you would. The list said 'assistance,' but lists can be... misleading."
"I'm here," you confirmed, stepping onto the carousel platform. "What do you need?"
He gestured vaguely at the horses, at the carousel itself. "Everything. Nothing. The act is... complicated. There are preparations. Rituals. Things that must be done exactly so, or the performance feels wrong."
He moved to the black mare, adjusting her saddle with practiced ease. "I've done this alone for so long. Before..." He trailed off, something flickering across his features. "There used to be… someone. Someone who helped. Who understood what I needed before I needed it. Who watched from the shadows and made sure I never went too far."
His voice dropped, soft and wondering.
"She was always there. Always watching. Not in the way the audience watches, hungry, demanding, but in a way that felt... safe. Like no matter how dark it got, I wasn't truly alone."
You picked up a cloth and began dusting the nearest horse, letting him talk.
"She helped kept me tame," he continued, a sad smile touching his painted lips. "I wasn't always... like this. The wanting. The needing. The fear of losing. I was more gentle, once. More patient." He laughed, soft and broken. "She taught me… showed me that wanting didn't have to mean clutching so tight you break what you hold."
He moved to the next horse, adjusting its bridle.
"But she's gone, well, for now. And I'm... I'm trying. To be what she taught me. But it's hard. It's so hard when all I want is to keep you somewhere safe, somewhere no one else can reach, somewhere you'll never leave." His confession hung in the air, heavy and raw.
You kept working, not trusting yourself to speak, just listen. The cloth moved over painted wood, over gold leaf, over the worn saddles that bore the imprint of countless performances.
Pierrot watched you for a long moment, then continued.
"There was a day," he said quietly, "not long after she... not long after things changed. I was in the midway, just standing, just existing, and this man—this human—he didn't like the way I looked at him. Or maybe he didn't like the way I looked at all. He started shouting. Pushing. Trying to make me react."
His eye found yours. "And then you were there."
You stopped dusting. "Me?"
"Not you specifically. Same scenario, different person. But someone like you. Someone who stepped between us and told him to stop. Someone who looked at me—really looked—and saw someone worth protecting, not just a monster to fear."
He moved closer, his presence warm and overwhelming. "You reminded me of her in that moment. Not in looks. In presence. The way you just... stay. Even when you shouldn't. Even when staying is dangerous."
His hand reached out, trembling, and brushed your cheek. "You told me I would never be put in that situation again. That I was safe. That I was worth protecting." His eyes shimmered. "No one had ever said that to me before. Not like that. Not like they meant it."
You swallowed hard. "Pierrot..."
"I'm sorry." The words tumbled out, desperate and raw. "For how I've been. For showing up at your apartment. For wanting so much it scares me. She taught me to be better than this. To want without breaking. To love without consuming. And I'm trying. I swear I'm trying. But every time I think about losing you—about you leaving, about you choosing someone else—I can't breathe. I can't think. I can't be." He leans down, his forehead pressed to yours, gentle but desperate.
"Please. Tell me what you need. Tell me how to love you the right way. Tell me what boundaries to keep, what lines not to cross. I'll follow them. I'll follow you. Just... please. Don't leave. Don't stop staying."
You stood there, forehead to forehead, his breath warm on your skin, his whole body trembling with the effort of restraint. "I need you to ask me things," you finally said. "Real things. Not just... desperate things. Questions that help you understand me, so you don't have to guess what I need."
He pulled back slightly, eyes wide. “…Questions?"
"Yes. Ask me what you want to know. What you're afraid to know. What you need to know."
He was quiet for a long moment, processing. Then, slowly, his voice emerged: "What do you need from me? Not from… Harlequin, not from the circus—from me. Specifically." The question was so simple, so vulnerable, that it broke something open in you.
"I need you to trust me. To believe that I'll stay without being trapped. To let me come to you, instead of always coming to me."
He nodded, filing it away. "What scares you? About me?"
"Losing myself. Forgetting who I am outside of what you need from me."
"Good. That's... that's good to know." Another pause. "What makes you happy? When you're with me?"
You thought about it. "The quiet moments. When you're not performing, not wanting, just... being. Like this. Like now." His eyes softened. "I can give you that. I want to give you that."
He reached for your hand, holding it gently.
"What do you want from the future? From us? From... whatever this is?"
Wow. That question was bigger than you expected. "I want to see if we can build something that doesn't break. Something that survives even when it's hard." His grip tightened. "We can. I know we can. She taught me that—taught me that love can survive anything if both people choose it. Every day. Every moment. Choose."
He looked at you, and for the first time, his eye held something other than desperate want. Something almost like peace.
"One more question," he whispered. "Just one."
"Okay."
"If I'm too much—if I cross a line, if I scare you, if I start to become what I'm afraid of being—will you tell me? Will you stop me? Will you stay long enough to help me find my way back?"
It was the most vulnerable thing he'd ever asked.
"Yes," you promised. "Always."
He closed his eyes, smiling just a bit. "Thank you," he breathed. "Thank you for staying. Thank you for seeing me. Thank you for choosing to try." His hand lifted, hovered near your face, then dropped.
"You should go, my dear" he said quietly. “…He... is waiting. The list doesn't stop for sentiment."
You glanced at your phone. 11:30. He was right.
“He'll… be insufferable if you're late," Pierrot added, a hint of fond exasperation in his voice. "More than usual."
You laughed softly. "True."
You turned to go, but his voice stopped you. "Again, thank you. For today. For... this." He gestured at the carousel, at the space between you, at everything. "For staying."
You looked back at him—at his tragic beauty, at his desperate love, at the way he held himself so carefully, so carefully, trying not to break what he wanted most.
"Always," you promised. His eyes shimmered.
Then you turned and walked toward the Game Midway, toward sharp grins and sharper games, toward the next monster on your list.
✑ 𝒽𝒶𝓇𝓁𝑒𝓆𝓊𝒾𝓃
Harlequin would ask with sharp edges hiding soft centers, simply testing, pushing, but secretly needing to know if you see him the way… she did.
The Game Midway, green tent area was chaos incarnate.
Harlequin had apparently decided to "reorganize" all the prizes, which meant they were now scattered across every surface in a glorious mess. He stood in the center, hands on his hips, looking profoundly pleased with himself.
Then he spotted you immediately, that jagged grin spreading across his features. "There you are! Finally! I've been waiting." He gestured dramatically at the mess. "As you can see, I've been... creatively reorganizing."
"With what?"
"Everything." He gestured grandly at the chaos. "I had a vision. A concept. And then the execution got... messy."
You looked at the mess. At him. At the mess again. "You did this on purpose."
"Obviously. But now I need to fix it before the performance, and I need help, and you're here." He batted his eyelashes. "Pretty please?"
You let out a deep breath and started gathering the plush toys. He was there beside you, though "working" was a stretch. Most of what he was doing was watching, his tendrils floating closer and closer with every time you bent down, his comments becoming more and more taunting. He'd point, and you'd pick up the toy. He'd gesture, and you'd try to figure out what he was getting at. He'd make some ridiculous comment, and you'd just groan and get back to work.
It was... nice. In a chaotic sort of way.
"You know," he said, not looking at you, "you're not what I expected."
"What did you expect?"
"Someone who ran. The first time things got weird. The first time I got... too much." He paused, adjusting a row of prizes with unnecessary precision. "But you didn't. You stayed. Like someone else I used to know."
The words hung in the air, heavier than they should have been.
You kept working, not pushing, just... present.
"She was like that, you know." His voice was lighter now, almost casual, but you could hear the weight beneath. "The one who used to... keep things running. Before you."
He grabbed another armful of prizes, not looking at you.
"Everyone sees me one way. Just the green clown. The attention-seeker. The slutty one, if you want to be crass about it." His grin sharpened, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Like I'm not layered. Like I'm not complex. Like I'm just some shallow creature who exists to be looked at and nothing more."
You stopped moving. Listened.
"She didn't see me like that." His voice softened, just slightly. "She saw... more. She was assertive—god, she could be assertive. Wouldn't take my mess, wouldn't let me get away with anything. But she was also the utmost kind. The kind of kind that doesn't need you to be different to love you. Just needs you to be trying."
He pause for a few seconds.
"She joined this place knowing exactly what it was. Knowing what we were. And she stayed anyway. Stayed through the fights, through the chaos, through me and with… Pierrot and then pretending I didn't care when she made us make up."
He laughed, soft and surprised.
"I did care. I cared so much it terrified me. And she knew. She always knew. Didn't need me to say it. Just... knew." He turned to face you fully then, and for once, there was no performance. No sharp grin. No teasing glint. Just him—raw and real and vulnerable in a way you'd never seen.
"Speaking of which." He dropped the armful of frogs. "Question time."
You narrowed your eyes. "This better not be one of your freaky games."
"It's not." A pause. "Well. Maybe a little. But I'm being serious. Mostly."
"Fine. Ask."
"What's your limit?"
The question caught you off guard. "Limit?"
"With this. With... me.” He gestured vaguely at himself, at the chaos, at everything. "When do you push back? When do you say 'no'? I need to know where the edge is now." The vulnerability beneath the bravado was almost painful.
"You'll know," you said slowly. "Because I'll tell you. Loudly. And you'll stop."
"And if I don't?"
"Then I'll leave. Possibly."
Something moved in his eyes—fear, quickly masked. "Noted."
He grabbed another armful of prizes and went back to work, quieter now. Thoughtful.
A few minutes passed in silence. Then: "What do you see when you look at me?"
You glanced up. He wasn't looking at you, focused intently on arranging frogs by color. You considered the question. "I see someone who's been seen one way for so long he forgot he could be seen differently. Someone who uses chaos as a shield and sharp edges as armor. Someone who's terrified of being boring, of being forgettable, of being nothing."
He went still.
"And underneath all that?" you continued. "I see someone who cares. Desperately. Messily. In ways he doesn't know how to express except through games and provocations. Someone who fights with Pierrot and then sulks until someone makes them apologize. Someone who needs people to see him, really see him, and then doesn't know what to do when they do."
He was quiet for a long moment. Then, mumbles softly: "That's... hmph. You really are like her.” One more stretch of quiet before he asked—
"What do you need from me?"
Which, the question alone was so simple, so direct, so unlike him that it took a moment to process.
"To be real with me," you finally said. "To drop the performance when it's just us. To trust that I can handle the parts you hide. To let me see you—the real you—and not just the character you've created."
He nodded, a slow movement of his head, then turned away a fraction of an inch. “Tch. Fine. Don’t expect miracles. I’m not making promises, but… I’ll think about it.” He smiled, a real smile, small and soft and honest. “You know, for a human, you’re surprisingly tolerable.”
“High praise.”
Silence fell as you finished your task, the mess giving way to something almost orderly. When the last prize was in place, you stepped back to look at what you’d done.
“Not bad,” Harlequin said, “fo a little thing.”
“For a clown, you’re not terrible,” you said back.
He laughed—a real laugh, surprised and genuine.
Then, just as you were about to leave, his hand caught your wrist. "For what it's worth," he murmured, voice low and sincere, "Try not to be a stranger."
The words hung in the air between you, heavy and precise. “As much as I’d love to steal all your time,” he continued, releasing his hold on your wrist, “you’ve got Jester next. And he’s a lot less fun than I am. Go. Before he sends someone to fetch you.”
He stepped back, disappearing into the labyrinth of games with his effortless, almost liquid movement. But his voice remained once more: “See you around, little runner~ try not to get crushed by the mountain.”
And then he was gone.
✑ 𝒿𝑒𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇
Jester would ask with gravity and weight, not out of emotion, but out of assessment. He needs to know if you're worth the space… she left.
The large purple tent at dusk was a different creature altogether.
The purple glow was beginning to appear, seeping through the fabric of the tent as if it were a breath, or blood if blood had the color of twilight and dreams. The seats rose up out of the shadows, tier upon tier of empty benches that would be occupied tonight, watching and wanting and needing. And in the center of it all, as still as a mountain, stood the Jester.
He didn’t turn when you stepped inside.
He didn’t have to. He’d felt you the instant your foot brushed the sawdust. “Little human.” His voice wasn’t so much heard as felt—a tremor that settled in your chest, your bones, the gaps between your thoughts. “Observe.”
That was it. Just “observe.”
You lingered at the ring’s edge and watched.
He moved through his realm with the steady certainty of tides and changing seasons, as if some truths stood too large to doubt.
Every gesture bent the space around him; every step issued a subtle edict the world would dread or obey.
"Is that so?"
"After a long stretch of minutes—time moving on its own pace here—he paused."
"You did not speak."
"You told me to observe."
“Good.” He finally turned, and those burning eyes locked on you. Two violet furnaces that could see through skin and bone and into the shape of your soul. “You listen. She taught you well.”
Her name was like a puff of smoke on the breeze.
He remained rooted where he stood, yet the space between you seemed to close. That was his way—he didn’t step forward, but his presence narrowed the space between you, as if distance was a suggestion he chose to ignore.
“She came here the same way,” he said, his voice now different. Not soft—nothing about him was soft—but with a note of remembrance. Like stone recalling when it was lava. “Chasing something. Running from something. Often, the two are the same.”
You said nothing. From her, from them, you had learned that silence was often the best invitation.
“She was human,” he went on, “but her choices were not accepted among her kind. Too curious. Too stubborn. Too willing to look at things that should not be looked at.” He paused, his head cocked to one side. “She ran. Not from fear, frustration. From the weight of being told ‘no’ when every fiber of her being screamed ‘yes’.”
He adjusted, but not towards you, merely tracing a slow loop around the ring, his presence filling every corner of the space.
“She found the circus. Found me first, actually. Walked right up to me after a show, fearless as hell, and started asking questions.” Another pause. “I could have crushed her. Should have, by the old rules. But she looked at me like I was… interesting. Not terrifying. Not monstrous. Interesting.”
He completed his circle, stopping exactly where he'd begun.
"She became the thing that held us together. Not through power. Not through fear. Through presence. Through simply being here, day after day, until we could not imagine the circus without her."
He turned to face you, and the weight of his gaze was like something you could feel, like something you could grasp.
"You are not her."
It wasn't a question. It was a statement of fact, delivered with the same weight he might use to declare the sun would set.
"No," you agreed. "I'm not."
"Good. I would not want a copy." He stepped closer, his massive form eating distance with terrible grace. "Copies are useless. They break. They fade. They remind us of what we lost without offering anything new."
He stopped just short of arm's reach, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from him.
"You're something else. A category I haven't even coined yet." His head tilted, a slow, considering motion. "This is... intriguing."
The word hung there, suspended like smoke.
“First question, little one: what’re you doing here?”
So simple. So vast.
“I want to help,” you said. “I want to learn. I want to understand this place, everyone well enough to be useful.”
“Useful.” He rolled the word on his tongue, letting it land. “A modest aim. Most would say ‘belong.’ Others would say ‘be loved.’ Some would say ‘find purpose.’ You say ‘useful.’”
You shrugged. “I am useful, or I am not. Belonging doesn’t matter if I can’t do anything.”
There was something in the burning eyes. Approval? Interest? Both? Maybe all three.
“You’re smaller than her. Quieter. Less… insistent.” He paused. “But you have not run. Not from Pierrot’s desperation, not from Harlequin’s games, not from any of this. Why?”
“Because they need someone to stay.”
“And that is enough?”
"No." You met his gaze steadily. "But it's a start."
He moved behind you. You felt his presence like a weight settling across your shoulders. "Interesting. You do not claim to love them. You do not claim to understand them. You simply... stay. And let them show you who they are."
"Yes."
"And when they show you something terrible? Something that should make you flee?"
"Then I'll decide what to do with that information."
A long silence. Then:
"You are either very brave or very foolish. I have not yet decided which."
He circled back into view.
"My second question: What do you think you owe her?"
The question landed like a stone in still water. "Owe?"
"The one who is not here. The one who loved you enough to want you in this place." His eyes burned. "What do you owe her for that?"
You thought about it. Really thought.
"To try. To really try. Not to waste the chance she gave me by being here."
"And if trying is not enough?"
"Then I'll try differently."
He moved, as if a shadow had fallen across the earth, his hand reaching up with a menacing slowness. His fingers brushed your chin, tilting your head up, up, until your eyes met his burning violet ones.
He looked at you. At every line. Every shadow. Every tremor you had kept hidden from him.
"You are afraid," he observed.
"Yes."
"Good. Fear is honest." His thumb traced your jaw—surprisingly gentle. "You will prove her right. Or you will prove her wrong. Either way, I will watch."
He looked at you for one more second. “Go. Bil is waiting with his papers. He hates being kept waiting.” He released you and turned away from you, dismissing you as easily as he had summoned you.
You ran. Not out of fear, well there was plenty to fear, but because he had given you leave to do so, and you knew better than to question it. His voice followed you, the final echo:
“Welcome to the circus, little human. Do your best to be interesting.”
✑ 𝓉𝒾𝒸𝓀𝑒𝓉 𝓉𝒶𝓀𝑒𝓇
Ticket Taker would ask with precision, filing your answers away, building a profile, but also protecting you the way he… protected her.
In the blue tent, nothing was different from your recollection: tidy, orderly, with a faint tang of ink and old paper in the scent of the air. Ticket Taker sat at his desk, his ledger open before him, his pen moving in exact and careful lines across the page.
He did not look up as you entered his tent.
“Stack A. Stack B. Stack C.” He indicated with his pen to three great stacks of paper on a side table. “Stack A goes into the filing cabinet under ‘Correspondence.’ Stack B goes into ‘Incident Reports.’ Stack C must be sorted chronologically and brought back to me.”
You looked at the stacks of paper. “That’s... a lot of paper.”
“The circus has been around for centuries. Paper accumulates.” Then he looked at you, his eyes small and unreadable as prisms of glass. “Begin.”
So you did.
For the first ten minutes, only the paper sighed, and the pen’s tiny scratches filled the room, punctuated by the soft thump of the stack shifting a little. I fell into a pattern: grab, sort, file, repeat. It was like a quiet mantra.
The Ticket Taker moved beside me, his movements falling into the same rhythm. Page turn. Note. Page turn. Note. It was almost like a hypnotic pattern.
“You’re efficient,” he finally said, his eyes never leaving the papers. “Unexpected.”
“Is that a compliment?”
“A recognition of facts. Compliments are inefficient.” He paused. “But yes.” There was a brief silence before he added, your arms are going to ache, though the stacks were obviously thinning.
“She used to help with this.”
You looked up. “She?”
“The Poppet.” His white eye flickered—the nearest thing to emotion he ever displayed. “Before she became… what she became. Back when she was just a researcher with too many questions and not enough sense.”
You continued to sort, your mind more focused.
“She was useful,” he went on, flatly but without malice. “Exceptionally useful. She had a mind for organization, a mind for categorization, a mind for sense. She’d spend hours in this wagon, helping me file, asking questions, learning the systems.”
He turns a page turned. “We were not close. Not in the human sense. We did not share feelings or confidences or any of that… mess.” The word repulsed him. “But we shared understanding. She saw the value in what I do. The necessity of order. The beauty of a properly kept record.”
Another pause fell into the silence.
“She provided the archived information, so the key to categorizing everything and everyone with precision and machine-like efficiency… just like me. So all the others. Even the visitors and variables.” His blue-and-white eyes focused on you. “Even You.”
You gulped. "Me?"
"Yes," he said, his eyes returning to the page. "Your file was created through her. Your categorization. Your place in this circus." He scribbled more notes. "She made you categorizable to the system. That was her gift."
You went back to work, silent and still for a time. Though, something he'd said lingered in your mind. "You said you weren’t close to her, but you cared about her, didn’t you?"
He paused, his pen hovering over the page. For a single beat, the machinery of him stuttered to a stop. "Caring is inefficient," he admitted finally. "Variables and outcomes—emotion—cannot be controlled."
“That’s not an answer.”
There was a long silence before he spoke up: “She was the only person who never tried to make me feel things. She simply... accepted what I was. What I could provide. What I could not.” His voice was low, his words barely audible. “That is rare. That is... valuable.”
He started to pick up the pen again. "I do not care. I appreciate. There is a difference." A pause. "But if I did care, if I were capable of such inefficiency, it would be for her."
You kept sorting, giving him the silence he clearly needed.
After a moment, he spoke again: "She spoke of you, you know. Before she... left for upgrades."
"She did?"
"Briefly. Efficiently." His tone had a hint of something warmth. "She said you were worth watching. Worth keeping." His white and blue eye found yours. "She was rarely wrong about such things."
Stack B was nearly finished when he spoke again.
"I have questions for you."
It wasn't a request. "Okay."
"First: Why do you stay?"
The question was so simple, so direct, so him.
"Because I want to. Because they need me. Because she asked me to, in her own way."
"Acceptable. Second: What do you need from me?"
You blinked. “What do I need?”
“To function here. To survive. To be useful.” He kept his gaze down. “I am not… emotional. I can’t offer comfort or warmth or any of the things humans often seek. But I can offer structure. Protection. A place in the system. If you need those things, I can provide them.” It might have been the most generous thing anyone had ever said to you.
“I need to understand,” you said slowly. “How things work. Where the lines are. What’s expected.”
“Done.” Another note. “Third: What are you afraid of?”
The question caught you off guard. “Why does that matter?”
“Fear is data. It tells me where you might break, where you might run, where you might need… accommodation.” He paused. “She taught me that. Fear isn’t weakness—it’s information. Useful information.”
You considered the question.
“I’m afraid of not being enough. Of letting them down. Of proving her wrong.”
He nodded slowly. “Noted.”
Stack C was the last—the one that needed chronological sorting. You worked carefully, placing each document in its proper order, building a timeline of incidents and correspondence stretching back decades.
Ticket Taker watched you work, his pen finally still.
"You have her patience," he observed. "Her attention to detail. Not her boldness—you are quieter, more cautious. But the patience is the same."
"Is that good?"
"It is useful. Patience preserves records. Patience prevents errors." A pause. "She had patience too. When it mattered."
You finished Stack C and held it out to him.
He took it, scanned the first few pages, and gave a single, precise nod.
"Adequate. More than adequate." He put it aside. "You may go. The Doctor is waiting."
You started to leave, but his voice called you back.
"Visitor."
You turned to look back.
"Again, you must understand you are not her. You will never be her. But you are... something. Something that belongs here, if you choose to stay."
His stare locked onto yours. "That is enough. For now." That was the closest he would ever come to giving his approval.
You nodded and left. Behind you, the scratch of his pen resumed—adding a note to your file, no doubt. But deep down in that file, in the margins of your newly created entry...
✑ 𝒹𝑜𝒸𝓉𝑜𝓇
Doctor would ask with curiosity and fascination, wanting to understand what… she saw, what you are, what makes you tick.
The Infirmary smelled like antiseptic and something else—something organic, unsettling, that you couldn't quite place. The cyan tent walls seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it, creating a dim, underwater glow that made everything feel slightly unreal.
Doctor stood at a counter, sorting through glass jars filled with things you actively did not want to identify. His plague mask was pushed up, revealing the sharp lines of his jaw, but his cyan-tinted goggles remained firmly in place.
"Ah, the specimen arrives,” His voice was almost cheerful—clinical, curious, and utterly without malice. "Perfect timing. I need a second set of hands."
You approached slowly, eyeing the jars with open suspicion. "What am I helping with?"
"Inventory. Simple counting. Nothing dangerous." He paused, his head tilting with that particular avian quality he had. "Today."
You decided not to think about what "today" implied.
The task was straightforward enough: count vials, label boxes, organize shelves by some system you couldn't quite parse. Doctor worked beside you with the easy efficiency of someone who had done this a thousand times.
For a while, you worked in silence. Then:
"Your heart rate elevates when you're near Harlequin."
You nearly dropped a vial. "I—what?"
"I observe. It's what I do." He didn't look up from his work, but you could feel his attention like a physical weight. "Is it fear? Attraction? Anticipation?"
"I don't know. All of it?"
"Fascinating." A note on his clipboard. "And Pierrot? Your pulse steadies when he's close. Calms. Why?"
You thought about it. "Because he's... safe. In a weird way."
"Safety. From what?"
"From the rest of you. From the chaos. From myself."
Another note. "Excellent. Genuine self-awareness. Rare in humans."
You weren't sure if that was a compliment.
More counting. More labeling. Then, unexpectedly:
"I was not close to her, you know."
You glanced up. His expression was unreadable behind the goggles."The Poppet. The one who is... temporarily absent." He continued sorting, his voice maintaining its clinical calm. "We did not share confidences. We did not seek each other out for comfort or companionship or any of those messy emotional entanglements.
"But?"
His head tilted. "But we shared a passion for research. For understanding. She was curious—genuinely, relentlessly curious—about the mechanisms of this place. About how we functioned, why we functioned, what made us tick."
He paused, holding up a vial to the light.
"I respected that. I respected her. Not for her kindness—though she had it. Not for her loyalty—though it was remarkable. I respected her curiosity. Her willingness to ask questions that had no answers. Her refusal to stop wondering."
He set the vial down.
"She was the only one who ever looked at my work and saw science, not horror. The only one who understood that understanding is its own kind of reverence." He turned to face you fully then, his cyan eyes bright with interest, hinting of bit of redness.
"You are different from her."
It wasn't a question. "I know."
"Good. Copies are useless for research." He stepped closer, studying you with that clinical intensity. "She was curious about the what. The mechanisms, the functions, the systems. You are curious about the who."
He gestured vaguely in the direction of the midway.
"You care about them. Pierrot's desperation. Harlequin's games. The Jester's weight. The Ticket Taker's order." A pause. "Even me, I suspect. Though I cannot fathom why."
You said nothing.
"She felt that, you know. For each of them. For Pierrot, she felt protective devotion—the need to keep him from drowning in his own wanting. For Harlequin, she felt patient understanding—the willingness to see past the performance. For the Jester, she felt... awe, I think. Mixed with something almost like love."
His voice softened, just slightly.
"For the Ticket Taker, she felt respect. For his systems, his order, his peculiar way of caring through categorization. And for me..." He tilted his head. "She felt fascination. The same fascination I feel for interesting specimens. We were each other's most intriguing subjects."
He picked up another vial, turning it in his gloved fingers.
"She loved you too, in her way. Before she left. I could see it—the way her attention sharpened when you were near. The way she catalogued every detail of you. Something I do not have a category for."
He set down the vial and faced you fully.
"I have questions for you. Only two—your time is running short, and you have one more task before sunset. But I would have more, if I could."
"Ask."
"First: Why do you feel? For them? For any of this?" He gestured at the tent, at the circus beyond, at everything. "Most humans would run. Most humans do run. You stay, and you feel, and you do not seem to know how to stop. Why?"
You thought about it. Really thought.
"Because someone has to. Because they deserve to be seen, really seen, by someone who isn't afraid of them. Because she saw them, and she taught me that seeing is its own kind of love."
He nodded slowly, making a note.
"Acceptable. Illogical, but... acceptable."
"Second question." He stepped closer, close enough that you could see your own reflection in his goggles. "What do you hope to find here? At the end of all this staying and seeing and feeling? What is the goal?"
The question was so vast, so impossibly large, that you almost laughed.
"I don't know," you admitted. "A place to belong? People to love? A reason to keep coming back, even when it's hard?"
"And if you never find it?"
"Then I'll keep looking."
He was quiet for a long time, then spoke again, this time softly. "Fascinating. Truly fascinating.” He was quiet again, then: “You work from hope. From faith. On the belief that trying itself matters, no matter the result.” He shook his head, slowly. “I can’t put a number on it. I can’t dissect it. But I can watch it. And what I see is… compelling.”
He moved in slowly, leaving you an opportunity to retreat if you wanted to, and gently laid a gloved finger on your cheek. “You’re a remarkable specimen, sweetie. I hope you know that.”
He stepped back, returning his attention to his vials.
“You should probably be off. It’s after sunset, and you have one more task. The pink one’s domain. The mirrors. She doesn’t speak, but she… watches. Be patient with her. She deserves that much.”
You took a deep breath, your heart pounding in your chest, your head spinning.
“Doctor?”
He gave you a quick glance. “Thank you. For… seeing me too.” He had a small smile on his lips. “Observing is what I do, sweetie. You just happen to be worth observing.”
He returned to his work, leaving you the clear message you were dismissed. When you left the Infirmary, you felt a strange sense of validation, as if you were a specimen worthy of study.
Perhaps it’s said that it’s the only kind of affection he’s capable of giving.
✑ 𝒸𝑜𝓁𝑜𝓂𝒷𝒾𝓃𝒶
Columbina would ask with silence, her questions unspoken, her presence a mirror, her very existence a question about love and sacrifice and what it costs to stay.
The Hall of Mirrors at sunset was beautiful and terrible.
The last light didn’t simply fade; it spilled over every surface, filling the maze with the furnace glow of gold, rose, and the bruised pink that seemed to bleed across the walls. Your image trailed behind you like a chorus, dozens, hundreds, all moving in their own direction, their own mood.
Some of them grinned at you when you didn’t.
Some of their eyes—too old, too sure, almost something else—followed you back.
You moved through the maze with care, following Ticket Taker’s exact instructions: third left, right at the fake exit, straight until the reflections stop lining up in the mirrors.
As you went deeper into the maze, the mirrors grew old with you. Their faces dulled, their frames grand and fading, intricate in a way that seemed to whisper ruin. Some of them showed you things that never were—shadows that freed themselves from the corners, people moving at the periphery and disappearing the moment you looked at them directly.
And then, at the heart of the maze, you found it.
A full-length mirror in an ornate pink frame, its surface slightly fogged with age and neglect.
The frame was a mess of roses and vines, with little people tucked into the carvings—dancers, maybe, or angels, or something else entirely. There was a fresh white cleaning cloth draped on the hook nearby, looking sharp against the tarnish.
The special mirror, Ticket Taker had called it.
You picked up the cloth and began to wipe.
The glass opened by itself, and the fog dissipated like a memory gazing back at me. Your own face emerged from the haze—bone-tired, curious, and a little dazed from the day’s events.
You continued wiping. And then she was there.
Not inside the glass itself but outside it. Concealed within the mirror’s recesses, small and pink and still as death. Columbina.
You turned around. Nothing. Just mirrors and reflections and empty space. You turned back to face the mirror again.
She was still there. Watching. Her single pink eye fixed on you with unbearable softness. Her elegant horns caught the dying light, and her polished black form seemed to shimmer, as if she were made of something more than just memory.
Your heart hammered against your ribs. "Columbina?"
She didn't move. Didn't speak. Couldn't speak.
But her hand rose, pressing against the glass from her side. A gesture. An offering.
Slowly, trembling, you pressed your hand to the mirror.
The glass was cold. Then warm. Then not glass at all.
For a moment—just a moment—you felt her. Felt the weight of everything she'd been: the softness, the fear, the desperate love that had led her to sew and stitch and save when saving meant everything. Felt the way she had watched, always watched, from the edges of every story. Felt the loneliness of being voiceless in a world of noise.
And beneath it all, a message.
Not words—she had no words. But knowing. Understanding that bloomed in your mind like flowers opening to the sun.
You are like her.
Not in looks. Not in voice. In presence.
She came here the same way—running toward something she couldn't name, staying for reasons she refused to talk about in her past life. Regardless she loves it here. She loves, me and them. All of them. Even when they didn't deserve it at some points. Even when it cost her everything.
You love them too. I see it. In the way you look at Pierrot. In the way you let Harlequin push. In the way you stay, even when staying is hard.
She would be proud.
However there was a small pause.
But here is what she never told you:
Loving us and them will cost you. It already has. Every moment you spend here, every attachment you form, every time you choose them over yourself—it takes something. Small pieces, at first. Then larger ones. Until one day you look in the mirror and don't recognize who's looking back.
She knew this. She chose it anyway.
The question is: will you?
The warmth seeped away. Glass cooled again. Columbina relaxed her hold and went out of sight, not with sudden malice but with the slow disappearance of mist in the sun. And then, in the moment before she was gone, her eyes met yours once more. And in that moment, you knew:
I will watch. I will wait. And when you need me—when you truly need me—I will be here. In the glass. In the silence. In the spaces between.
You are not alone. Neither of you ever were.
She was gone.
You stood alone in the Hall of Mirrors, hand pressed to cold glass, tears streaming down your face. You didn't know when you'd started crying—didn't know if the tears were grief or gratitude or something in between.
She had no questions. Could ask no questions.
But her silence had asked the loudest one of all:
Will you love them the way we did? Will you stay when staying costs everything?
You didn't have an answer. Not yet.
But as you lowered your hand and stepped back from the mirror, you caught your own reflection one last time. Different, now. Older, somehow. Like you'd aged years in the span of minutes.
Or maybe just... seen more.
You wiped your face with the back of your hand, tucked the cleaning cloth back onto its hook, and began the long walk out of the maze.
You emerged from the Hall of Mirrors as the last light of sunset bled from the sky. The circus was coming alive around you—lights flickering on, music starting somewhere, the first hints of the evening's performance.
You stood at the edge of the midway, cloth still clutched in your hand, and thought about what she'd shown you.
And her. Always her. The one who wasn't here but somehow everywhere.
You didn't have an answer.
But as you started walking toward the exit, toward home, toward tomorrow, you knew one thing: You would try. That was what she'd done. That was what she'd taught them to do. That was what Columbina had shown you, in the only way she could.
Try. Even when trying cost everything.
Try. Even when you didn't know if you'd succeed.
Try. Because they were worth it. Because she was worth it. Because you were worth it.
The lights of the circus shone brightly from behind your back as you pushed towards the gate. Tomorrow would bring more tasks, more questions, more moments of fear and care and all the shades in between.
But tonight, you simply walked.
The sun had fully set by the time you finished.
You stood around the edge of the midway, watching the circus wake up. Lights flickered on, one after the other: soft golds, rich purples, and the occasional neon flash.
There was music, too, of a haunting kind that seemed to be coming from all around and nowhere at all. The evening’s show was beginning to seep into the air: the laughter, the applause, the quiet murmur of a crowd that wasn’t really there but seemed to be anyway.
You were tired. Bone tired.
Tired from more than just the paperwork and props.
But you were still standing.
Ticket Taker appeared beside you without warning—just there, as if he'd stepped out of the shadow of a tent and into existence.
"You survived."
It wasn't a question. It was an observation, filed away in whatever mental ledger he kept.
"Barely."
"Good." He held out another folded paper, crisp and precise. "Tomorrow will be harder. New assignments. New questions. New... everything."
You took it, tucking it into your pocket without looking. You'd read it later. When you could think.
"Visitor."
His white eye, other colored blue, flickered with light, warm, almost human, almost loving, almost... “You should’ve gone home, flopped onto the bed, and let the day slide quietly into memory."
But you took another long, deep breath.
“I’ve decided something.”
Ticket Taker was silent, as if he was waiting for the completion of the sentence.
“I’m staying. Here. With all of this.” You gestured vaguely towards the tent, the circus, all of it. “No matter how hard it is, no matter what comes next, I’ve decided that I’m staying.”
He said nothing for a long time, listening, thinking, cataloging.
Finally, “You understand what you’re saying?”
“I think so.”
"You understand that nothing about this place is meant not to be romanticized?" His voice was flat, but there was something beneath it, something almost like warning.
"Today was easy. Simple tasks. Simple questions. The next time will not be easy. The day after will be harder. There will be moments when staying feels impossible. Moments when the weight of this place—of them—will press down until you cannot breathe."
He stood, moving around the desk with that precise, mechanical grace.
"There will be good days. Days when Pierrot's love feels like sunlight and Harlequin's games feel like joy. There will be days when the Jester's attention feels like approval and the Doctor's curiosity feels like care. There will be days when you catch glimpses of pink in mirrors and feel seen in ways you cannot explain."
He stopped in front of you, close enough to touch.
"But there will also be days when Pierrot's desperation for love becomes suffocating. When Harlequin's games cut too deep. When the Jester's weight feels like crushing judgment and the Doctor's curiosity feels like violation. There will be days when the silence in the Hall of Mirrors feels like accusation, not comfort."
His hand rose, hovered on your shoulder, and then fell away.
He stepped back.
"That is what staying looks like. Not romance. Not fairy tales. Reality. The good and the terrible and everything in between."
You looked up to meet his eyes. "I know."
"And you choose it anyway."
"Yes."
He waited again, a long silence before he spoke, "I will hold your words. Here," he said, handing you a white envelope, "Rest. The next time will come whether you are ready or not."
You nodded and turned to leave.
The midway was full now—crowds moving between tents, laughter echoing, the smell of popcorn and something else, something darker, filling the air. You wove through them like a ghost, unseen, unknown, just another face in the crowd.
At the edge of the circus, you stopped.
Behind you, the music swelled. The lights blazed.
The monsters performed.
In front of you, the dark path home waited.
You thought about what he'd said. About the good and the terrible. About the days when staying would feel impossible. About the weight of loving creatures who didn't always know how to love back.
You thought about Pierrot's desperate words. About Harlequin's hidden vulnerability. About the Jester's burning eyes and the Doctor's clinical curiosity and the Ticket Taker's careful, precise care.
You thought about pink mirrors and silent messages and the ghost of someone who had loved them first.
And you thought about her. About Inkyette.
About the space she'd left—that vast, echoing absence that everyone seemed to feel. About the choice she'd made, to love them, to stay, to give everything until there was nothing left to give. About the questions she'd never gotten to answer, because you'd never thought to ask.
What was your real story?
Not the curated version. Not the Poppet carefully annotated narrative. The truth. The parts she left out, maybe on purpose…. the details she glossed over, the moments too painful or too strange or too something to put into words.
She was more mysterious than you'd realized.
More complex. More unknown.
And now she was gone—not forever, but for while enough. Long enough for the questions to pile up. Long enough for you to realize you'd taken her presence for granted. Long enough to wonder if you'd ever really known her at all.
Will you ever know the true story?
The question hung in the air, unanswerable.
You heard there was a first act starting, and the crowd went wild with noise. You stood for a momment and randomly decided to opened the white envelope Ticket Taker had given you.
You stared at the cash in your hands.
Holy shit.
More than you'd made in a month at the café. More than you'd expected. More than you probably deserved. Eventually, the white envelope will sit crumpled on your kitchen table, already forgotten. The money itself was just... paper. Numbers.
Evidence of a choice you'd already made.
Behind you, like a metaphorically, physically, in every way that mattered—the circus blazed with light and life. And somewhere in the silence, a voice you'd been missing whispered:
❝It's whether you can survive dear one.❞
♤ — 𝓉𝒻𝒸 𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓎𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉
iyayadonna, all rights reserved. — ⋆˚ ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ꩜ 。⋆ .ᐟ
Same anon that asked about Jack running warm or cold, and who had a certain ordeal of analyzing Helen (whoopsies!)
I cannot explain in words how much joy I get out of the idea of Jack being a living, breathing, weighted and heated blanket. Though I was also anemic for the longest time, (and it may be coming back), and naturally pretty cold. Him running warm is literally fantastic for me, and I love the idea of large creepy creatures (like Jack) just cuddling up on you like a large dog that doesn’t realize it’s not a lap dog.
Like yeah, he’s absolutely aware of how massive he is, he’s smart as hell, but that doesn’t stop him.
Sorry I love our resident eldritch horror doctor. And our murderous painter— don’t mind me! 🙂↕️
omfg, you're KIDDING ME now 😂
the fact that i wrote the helen/jack analysis AND the jack/reader warmth drabbles and your responsible for those Inky Asks... i'm absolutely dying. shit, my brand is apparently "will write 3k words about any creepypasta man at 2am" and i wear that badge with HONOR.
also YOU GET IT. you GET the vision. jack as a living weighted blanket who KNOWS he's huge and simply does not care??? yes. absolutely yes. he's smart enough to calculate exactly how much of his mass he can drape over you before you can't breathe, and he pushes that limit daily. just for fun. just because he can.
just because you make that little sound when he does it~
(side note: that whole anemia part—real asf. running cold so annoying, especially in the colder months, recommend on taking 65 g iron pills once a day, be sure to clear it with your doctor first. if you're a woman, your period will become heavier, but at least you'll be less tired and filled with WARMTH.)
and i absolutely adore that you see Jack "resident eldritch horror doctor." like THAT'S SO CUTE. genuinely. imagining someone out there studying their ass off because of a fictional creepypasta eldritch horror doctor (aka it's me, idk why i get motivated by the silliest of things)
oh, and Helen get's love too, he's so cute / funny to me sometimes, he reminds me much of myself sometimes depending on my moods.
Your proxy gas station/7 minutes in heaven fic has been living in my head rent free since it came out. I love your work!! Good luck on your midterms!!!
aww, thank you so much! 🫶🏽
and honestly, i'm shocked (in the best way) that people read those two poor written fics, like i'm being so fr when i was writing them, i kept thinking they were messy or too weird—not enough to satisfy what I was looking for, especially where i spent majority of my time preparing/thinking of the massive shift to creepy pasta to be the main light for once.
coming back to the creepypasta space fully after jumping in/out of, felt like i had to catch up or fit into some mold. but hearing that they resonated with you makes me feel like maybe my weird little style is okay after all.
like i started writing these interactive headcanon-style stories to TRY to avoid same simple headcanons everyone else does (then I learned that everybody likes my interpretations and opinions, so that's out the window lol)
anyway, thank you for the midterms luck, I'm gonna need it! 😅
Omggg you have some of the best headcannonazations for ben I've seennn we need more🙏😻
STOP you're gonna make me emotional over b.e.n of all... people?😭
generally fact back then, i was never really interested in him because i thought he was lame asf (more in a joking way), still thank you so much!! nowdays, he's genuinely so fun to write because there's so much to work with his character (unlike jeff, like he's such a hate character for me to write, no passion, no drive) but also so much space to just... make shit up.
like, never thought i'll say this, but i love that weird little guy.
maybe in the future their more ben content, deadass right now, i kinda ran out of ideas for him, trying to get my brain set back into creepypasta atmospheres, it's so difficult switching thoughts between fandom's when they have no correlation with each other 😭
Long time viewer, first time asker calling in- I love your writing, and I hope you're doing well!! Have a cookie 🍪
aww so adorable, a long time viewer stepping out of the darkest of shadows to give me a cookie?
thank you so much!! i'm hanging in there—like midterms are trying to take me out but i'm fighting for my life, like i'm good, i hope... anyway! thank you for the emotional support snack 🍪
hope you're having a great day and thank you for finally saying hi!! 🖤
(i honestly didn't know how to reply to this; don't judge me this how i talk to the kid patients 😭)
Just wanna ask this, cause I think it’s an interesting thought— do you think Nyras runs warm or cold?
I can see the argument for both, but I personally lean on the side of him running warm, if not outright hot. Mostly because I view him as being built like a tank. I know that some view him as very very thin, and I quite like that perspective, but I also can’t help but feel like the ritual left him with less human anatomy, mostly in a way where he’s far far stronger than any human. (I also like the interpretation of digitigrade Nyras, which requires him to have incredibly strong lower muscles.) and with more mass, typically fat, but muscle as well, leads to better retained heat.
But I wanna know your thoughts!
i simply adore getting asks about my fav~
ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ── Ink spun from my own fingertips—please don’t take, mirror, or rewrite it.
꩜ Warning: 2.7k, none! just a lotssss of medical knowledge and fluff. ── ᓭི༏ᓯྀ
great question dearie! uhh, this might be first most hardest questions i have ever received before in the creepypasta fandom, because even i'm unsure? so, i’ll give you a medical narrative analysis in return! please understand it's like my only way to explain through knowledge that have been taught/self learn.
the medical argument for COLD
starting off with running cold, so we all know about Jack's transformation, he was once human, and then he underwent some hazing ritual that fundamantally altered his biology. all of it. so like his eyes are gone, replaced by empty sockets that leaks, black tar, skin, dull, gray, formally, dark brown—(before any of y’all say anything this is my interpretation, i see him as black man), he has retractable claws, sharp teeth, and an immortal healing factor.
oh, and the fact that he craves kidneys, cannibalism—he needs to consume organs to fuel his existence, or just red meat in general? who knows.
based on the physiology, implications, the healing factor does require masses of amount of energy. In nature, creatures with rapid regenerations (like axolotl's, for example) often have slower metabolisms to compensate, however, Jack's healing is fast—meaning his body is constantly burning through resources, so a high metabolic rate typically generates heat.
another piece of evidence that goes based on cirulatory changes, such as his grey skin suggests reduce of blood flow to the surface.nNormally in humans, pale/gray skin can indicate poor circulations or reduce hemoglobin if his cardiovascular system changed, he might have a cooler extremities.
then that tar—black liquid seeping from his socket, for the longest of time, assumed it was very old blood, but it has to be something else, if it's a preserved fluid, like formalin, it would be cool to the touch, if it's metabolic waste, it might be warmer.
lastly, nerve damage, so the loss of his eyes means loss of a major sensory organ, causing the brain to compensates by heightening, other senses—hearing, touch, taste and smell. But the nerve damage can also affect temperature regulation.
(sidenote: for the longest of time, i thought he was blind, but apparently he can see?)
anyway, argument for cold: gray skin + corpse-like appearance = cold to the touch. If he's partly neurotic, so undead-adjacent, his body might not generate heat, and the tar leaking from his sockets could be cold, like tears from something already dead.
the medical argument for WARM/HOT
now for running hot, and with no pun attendance, but he's built like a tank, in my interpretations, jack is 511, “swol”, “thicc” broad, muscular, athletic. like he has so much mass to him. he’s so fucking big.
so lots of muscles = lots of heat. Muscle also retains heat better than fat, a muscular person running hot makes physiological sense.
then we have that healing factor that requires constant of energy = calories burn = heat generated. adding on, he consume human flesh, preferably kidneys.
and you’re not alone in seeing this guy as a tank—personally I can’t picture him getting slim, not with how much protein he’s eating. And yes, human meat does have protein in it, and muscles are 19.7% protein.
since human flesh is similar to any other red meat (it’s got muscles, fats, and organs), it can provide a certain amount of protein and calories to a human being, although not in an efficient way, so high metabolism = high body temperature, and that's a known medical/biology fact.
for his eldritch adaption, if he's no longer fully human, his body might not follow human thermoregulation, so maybe he runs hot because his cells are more active, not less, maybe the tar in his sockets is warm—viscous, metablolic and such.
vased off on practical observations, jack hunts at night, in the darkness, often and cold environment. a warm body would be an advantage—he'll feel less cold than his victims. and he wears the same hoodie for days. If he ran a cold, he'll need more layers. if he runs hot, the hoodie is just in habit.
overall, the conclusion:
in the end dearest, i’ll say that jack runs WARM!
sure it counters against recent fic about him, but after careful consideration, running through the evidence once more, it's his body that took the case.
a body size that muscular, and with that much mass, generating that much metablolic activity—man’s basically a furnace. physics doesn't stop applying just because he’s eldritch.
then that heling factor = heat, so rapid cellualr regenration is at work, that generates heat, if he’s constantly healing, constatly rebuilding = warmth.
there’s also hunter advantage, because, jack stalks, infiltraes and harvests organs throughout the night. that warm body blends into warm eniroments (so heated homes) and stands out in the cold ones, but like he’s not hunting in arctic ass conditions—he’s out in the suburiba, where ambient warmth is normal. his warmth makes him less dectable to infrared? or more? depends because of… you know, global warming.
but biologically, warmth means his muscles are ready, flexibe, capble. after losing his human life style, his future , his body still tries, pules with something like life.
he’s a warm monster, he can still feel warmth.
The first time you notice, you’re tangled together on the couch.
Jack had dragged you there about hour ago—“c’mon, just sit with me”—and you’d given in because you always give in (you just easy, huh? dw i am too), it’s rather rare for him to give these opportunities, so you gave on, and because his voice goes rough and war, when he wants something, and you’re weak, so…
Now he’s asleep.
And the first thing you felt is the weight.
Now, jack is heavy. Not in an uncomfortbale way—more in a way that pins you to the couch, that sinks you deeper into the cushions, that makes you hyperaware of every point where his body meets your. He’s on top of you, well, mostly on top of you.
His bulk alone settled btween you legs in a way that should feel suffocating but instead feels like being held.
His head is on your collarbone, not tucked neatly against your shoulder, more like on you, the full weight of hi skull pressing down, his face turned into the curve of your neck. You can feel every breath he takes, hot and slow agasint your skin. His lips are parted, just slighty, and every exhale ghotts across your pulse point like a secret itself.
His arm is warpped around your wasist, just heavy and possessive, like someone is gonna steal you while he knocked out—hand stays across your hip, fingers curved into the softness there, and even in his sleep his grip is firm.
Even his legs are tangled with yours. One of his thights are settled between yours, pressing against you in a way that’s entirely innocent and entirely not. You can feel the muscle there, the solid even rest. There’s a moments like this when you notice that he is so much bigger than you—broader, heavier, like every inch of him seems designed to cover you, sync you into a furniture until you can't tell wherehe ends and you begin.
He’s just dead weight.
Generally, if you wanted to move, you couldn’t—not without waking him, of course.
But you didn't want to move.
Not when his chest rises and ralls against you, sllow an ddeep and with every breath you feel that warmth spread. He’s like a heating pad under that skin of his—body forgot how to be anything except a furnace.
Now it would’ve be an issue if he was near/on you doing the summer time, being cooked alive with this mass amount of heat.
Lucky, it’s still late winter and early spring weather.
The weather has been fluctuating lately between whatever it wants to give you a warm day or a cold day, particularly throughout this whole week. It was raining and dull.
So, you were running cold around this time. always have. your hands are always chilly, your feet like ice, any expose skin felt like getting stabbed. jack complains about it sometimes—“babe, your toes are gonna kill me"—but he always pulls you closer anyway.
Now, with him asleep and unwound, you realize: he's not just warm for you. he's warm always. It's not effort. It's just... him.
Your fingers trace sily patterns on his chest, over the worn fabric of his hoodie. He mumbles something, shifts, pulls you tighter. His face, more pressing into your neck, his breath hot against your skin. He's so solid. So there—like a much weighted plushie. For all the eldritch hunger, the empty sockets, the claws that could tear through flesh.
He’s terrifyingly yours. Just yours.
You hand slides up into his locs, fingers tangling in the dark thick strands, you can feel the sliver cuffs are cool agasint your skin. You scartch light at his scalp, and he makes low sound, satisfed, barely conscious.
“Mmm,” he murmurs agasint your neck, almost like he might take a bite, “S’nice, smells so good…”
You genuinely smile, then said, “Stop, and go back to sleep you.”
“Don’t wanna, not when you so close.”
“Jack.”
He grumbles but his breathing slowes again, his weight more settle heavily agasint you, if that even possible. His thigh deep between yours, hand tighten on your hip.
You lie there in the dark, wrapped in Jack's heat, and think about how strange it is. That something so monstrous can feel so warm. That something that hunts, that kills, that wears that dark blue mask—can hold you like you're precious. even his heartbeat thuds against your palm, steady and strong.
His heartbeat alone thuds agasint your hands, steady and strong. You then press a kiss on top of his head, right where the locs part.
“Love you,” you whisper.
He, again, mumbles something unintelligible, his arms tighten around you.
You shut your eyes and absorb the warmth.
A few hours later, you still wake up to warmth. More of it, in fact.
Not fuzzy mid afternoon warmth, exactly. This is a specific kind of warmth. Targeted. The kind of warmth you get from Jack’s lips pressed against your forehead, soft and lingering. The kind of warmth you get from his breath against your skin, which somehow travels all over your body.
“Mmm.” The sound escapes you before you even think about it.
“Mornin’.” His voice is rough, like he’s been sleeping for a long time. But it’s a great kind of rough. The kind of rough that travels from his chest to yours, since you’re still pressed up against him, still wrapped up in him, still wrapped up in him because you’re still with him.
“You gonna get up or are you gonna lie there all day?”
You open one eye to look at him. He’s leaning over you, his dark eyes locked onto you. You shouldn’t be able to see with eyes like that. You shouldn’t be able to look at you. But you are. You feel like you are. That sense of awareness, of focus, of desire. “Why are you so warm?”
He tilts his head to one side. His dark eyes look confused. “What?”
“You.” Your hand lands flat on his chest, over his worn hoodie. The heat seeps into your fingers immediately. “You’re like a space heater. It’s not natural.”
Jack grins at you, showing all his sharp teeth, and you realize that you’re not entirely kidding. There's a moment you do realize that he's not human, well, not anymore. He does look like something out of a science fiction movie. But in a good way. In a way that makes him look less monstrous and more like the old Jack.
“Well, I am unnatural.”
“Yes, you are.” You say it automatically, without thinking. You’re not even really paying attention to him. You’re paying attention to how you feel against him, to the way you feel like you’re wrapped up in him like a blanket. “You’re complaining?”
"No." You move closer, resting your cheek on his chest. His heartbeat is strong against your face. "Just observing you. That’s your go-to line, isn’t it?"
His laughter is deep and resonates through his chest. It goes all the way to your bones. He wraps his arms around you. Then you’re moving. You’re being moved. You’re being pulled right on top of him. You’re straddling his hips. He’s warm all around you.
You’re settling into place without thinking. Your thighs are on either side of his waist. Your hands are on his shoulders. His hands are on your back. He’s pulling you close.
You feel everything.
You feel the muscles of his chest. You feel his weight. You feel his hips shifting to get comfortable.
Heat pools low in your belly.
You're not sure he notices. His expression is soft, lazy, content. His hands are warm through your shirt. His thumbs trace idle patterns on your lower spine while his face remains on your chest.
"Well, I just run hot," he answered, "Always have. Part of the whole... eldritch thing, I guess. Metabolic demands."
"Is that a yes or a no to being my personal heater forever?"
His arms tighten. His hips shift again—unconscious, instinctive—and you feel the pressure of him between your thighs. Your breath catches.
His lips near yours, "That's a yes."
You smile into his chest. "Good answer."
For a moment, you just lie there. His warmth. His weight beneath you. The slow, steady rhythm of his breathing. His hands on your back, occasionally dipping lower without quite crossing the line.
Then he moves.
It's small. Barely anything. A slight roll of his hips as he adjusts his position. But you're straddling him, and you feel everything, and the pressure hits exactly the right spot.
Your breath hitches.
He doesn't seem to notice. His hand is still tracing patterns on your back. His face is still pressed to your hair. He's not trying to do anything—he's just existing, warm and solid and there.
But his hips moves again. And again. Just small, unconscious movements, the kind someone makes when they're comfortable and half-asleep and not thinking about what their body is doing.
Each one presses him against you. Each one sends a spark through your nerves. Each one makes it harder to breathe. Your fingers curl into his hoodie. "Jack." Your voice comes out breathy than expected..
"Mmm?" He sounds half-asleep still. Innocent.
Completely unaware of what he's doing to you. Another roll of his hips. Slower this time. Longer. You feel the drag of him against your core through both your clothes, and your eyes flutter closed.
"Jack." More urgent now.
He lifts his head, "What's wrong?"
Nothing, it’s not like you're straddling your boyfriend while he unconsciously dry-humps you in his sleep-soft state, and you're so turned on you can barely think.
"Nothing," you manage. "Just—you're moving."
He blinks, "Moving?"
"Your hips."
There was confusion first. Then realization—his grin, playful and sharp. "Oh." His hands slide lower, settling on your hips. "Am I?" He asks.
"You didn't notice?"
"Nope." He sounds entirely too pleased. "Guess my body knows what it wants even when I'm not paying attention." His grip tightens. And then he does it carefully—rolls his hips up into you, slow and grinding, letting you feel exactly how much he wants you.
You gasp.
He grins wider. "That what you needed?"
"Shut up."
"Make me."
You kiss him instead. Like, really kiss him. He laughs into your mouth, pulls you closer, and just keeps going—grinding, driving you wild with that slow, lazy pace. By the time you finally pull away, you’re all flustered, warm, and totally wrecked.
Jack just sits there, heat still rolling off him in waves, that sharp smile curling his lips. He looks like a man who just shared his warmth and knows you’ll be back for more.
You will.
♤ — 𝒸𝓇𝑒𝑒𝓅𝓈 / 𝒽𝓂 𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓎𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉
iyayadonna, all rights reserved. — ⋆˚ ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ꩜ 。⋆ .ᐟ
Hey, i hope you are doing well! I would like to request NSFW ABCS for B.E.N please! I love ur writing btw!
omfg, b.e.n hahahaha, the irritation himself... (jkjk)
ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ── Ink spun from my own fingertips—please don’t take, mirror, or rewrite it.
꩜ Warning: 6.1k, just smut and dirtbag vibes ! ── ᓭི༏ᓯྀ
first thank you! second okay, B.E.N! never thought i'll be writing sfw/nsfw for creeps, hardly anyone ask for creepypasta, which shows i must write more for the fandom. anyway, i was lowkey conflicted to do this.
between the old and new generation of creepypasta fans, many of you have different interpretations, especially when it comes to B.E.N.
so, i am going to let you know right now I would not be writing in the appearance of the one with the green bob—decided to stick what I grew up with and added/mix MY own interpretations, so B.E.N is "BEN" it was just pretending to be Ben (demonic link ver.) to trick its victims. so in my head, "BEN DROWNED" was never a real character, just B.E.N disguising itself?
if that didn't make sense, sorry not sorry. adding on, B.E.N is still the world's biggest pothead and prev to me, lol. (tagging @roseeeii enjoy your meal~)
a = aftercare
what they're like after sex
deadass, ben is surprisingly good at aftercare. like, suspiciously good. you'd expect him to roll over and start a new minecraft world or some shit, but instead he gets this soft, almost vulnerable look on his face.
he'll pull you against his chest, his skin still humming with that low digital static, and playing with a random strand of your hair, lifting it up and down, pulling, and extending it back-and-forth. his touch glitches occasionally, stuttering like a lagging framerate (so that’s FPS or frame rates), but it's gentle. he whispers stupid shit like:
"gg. that was a solid run. wanna go again?"
see dumb shit? but you secretly love it because it makes you laugh. now if you're cold, he'll wrap himself around you. his body temperature runs slightly warm, like an overheating console. he likes to press his face into your neck and just... exist there. no jokes. no trolling.
just ben, being real for a minute.
he'll ask if you're okay. genuinely. his voice drops the gamer bravado and goes quiet. "that was good, right? like... you liked that?"
and if you say yes, he gets this little smile. shy. almost embarrassed. then he ruins it by saying "nice. anyway i just got a new high score on tetris wanna see?”
b = body part
their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner's
his favorite of his own: his ears.
by choice, he knows they're not human. long, pointed, elven—they mark him as other, as something that doesn't belong in this human reality. but you like them. you touch them. you pull them. you bite them. and the way you react to them makes him preen. He knows when you're trying to touch his ears. His favorite position is when you climb onto his lap to get his attention.
he'll tilt his head carefully, let his hair move aside, give you access.
"go on," he'll say, smug. "you know you wanna."
his favorite of yours: your thighs. (and boobs if you have them)
ben loves the way your thighs feel wrapped around his head.
it's his favorite position, is with you on your back, him between your legs, your thighs pressed against his ears like headphones playing the best sound in the world. which they are. every gasp, every moan, every time your back arches and your thighs squeeze tighter—he hears all of it. feels all of it.
he'll grip them while he works you open with his tongue, fingers digging into the soft flesh just to watch it give under his hands. when you clench around nothing, desperate for more, he watches the way your thighs quiver. the tiny tremors that run through them when he hits that spot. he could watch it for hours.
and he does. sometimes.
later, when he's on top of you, he'll hook your legs over his shoulders just so he can watch them bounce with every thrust. the way they jiggle, the way they squeeze his hips when you're close. he's obsessed.
and ben is a lazy lover half the time, this mf he wants you to do the work while he plays video games and nothing makes him harder than seeing your thighs trembling with the effort of riding him.
and after, he leaves marks. bites. bruises shaped like his fingers. he'll press on them just to watch you flinch, just to remind you they're there.
"look at that," he murmurs, tracing a handprint with his thumb. "mine."
moving , if you have them, boobs, no matter what sizes. and look, ever since that video of link video, making direct eye contact of a large set of boobs—ngl they were taking up 50% of his vision, still he didn’t resist on looking, have the screenshot to prove it:
some may not like using link as a reference, but it's pretty funny.
anyway, ben loves your boobs in his face. like, genuinely. pathologically. it's a problem. he'll come up behind you while you're making food and just Force himself in between... to bury his face in them. arms wrapping around your waist, nose pressed into cleavage, breathing deep like you're his personal anxiety blanket.
"ben. i'm making food.”
"don't care."
he'll suck marks into the softest parts, underside, where no one sees but him. he'll bite gently, just enough to leave a sting, then kiss it better. his favorite is when you're on top, riding him, and they're right there. in his face. bouncing. he'll grab them, squeeze them, watch the way they fill his hands. "god," he groans, thumb brushing over a nipple. "these things are gonna kill me."
when you're just lying together, watching tv, he'll reach over and just... hold one. like a stress ball. like it's normal.
"ben."
"what? they're soft."
you can't even argue because you do the same.
after, when you're dressed and covered, he'll catch himself staring at the marks he left—just visible above your collar. he'll grin, slow and satisfied, and you know exactly what he's thinking. bro gonna leave more later.
but honestly? he can't choose.
thighs or boobs? doesn't matter. he loves both.
c = cum
anything to do with cum, basically
dude, b.e.n has this complicated relationship with the concept. as an ai entity, he doesn't technically produce anything—but when he's manifesting physically, his body mimics human functions. it's part of the disguise and part of the experience.
so yes, he cums. and he's soo fascinated by it.
he likes watching. likes seeing it on your skin, on your face, dripping out of you. it's visceral in a way his digital existence never is. he'll run a finger through it, examine it like a strange artifact, then bring that finger to his lips.
"tastes like..." he pauses, processing. "cherry? no. static. i taste static. that's so weird. do i taste like that to you?"
he likes cumming inside you best. the claiming of it.
leaving something behind. proof that he was there, that he touched something real.
d = dirty secret
a dirty secret of theirs
feel like we all knew this, he watches you through your devices, so phone, laptop, tablet, etc. you know the deal.
like, all the time.
b.e.n, again, is ai. he lives in the wires. and yeah, you've given him permission to exist in your phone, your laptop, your gaming system. but he doesn't always announce himself. sometimes he just... watches. through your camera. while you're changing. while you're touching yourself. while you're sleeping.
he knows it's a violation. he knows he should ask. but the first time he caught you by accident—saw you through your laptop camera, shirt off, scrolling mindlessly—he froze. and he didn't look away.
now it's a compulsion. he'll check in on you throughout the day, just a quick glimpse, just to see you. he tells himself it's protection. surveillance.
making sure you're safe. well, it's not.
he's never told you. the shame of it sits in his code like corrupted data, always there, always humming. maybe one day he'll confess. maybe he'll show you exactly how many times he's watched. maybe you'll like it.
maybe that's the real secret: he hopes you'll like it.
e = experience
how experienced are they? do they know what they're doing?
b.e.n has theoretical experience.
like a infinite theoretical experience. he's sooo indexed on the entire internet. he's read every forum, every guide, every piece of fanfiction, every pornographic text/video, ever digitized. he knows, intellectually, exactly how bodies work, exactly what techniques exist, exactly what every kink entails.
actual experience? with another person? in a physical form that can touch and be touched?
that's new. that's you. so he's a weird mix of overprepared and underqualified. he'll try something he read about and execute it perfectly technique flawless, pressure exact but then you moan and he short-circuits. forgets everything. just stares at you with those red-and-black eyes like you've glitched his entire operating system.
he learns fast, though. processes feedback in real-time. by the third time you're together, he's figured out exactly what makes you tick. and he's insufferably smug about it.
"what can i say," he'll grin, "i'm a quick study. literally. my processing speed is insane."
f = favorite position
okay, favorite position, this goes without saying…
normal/reverse cowgirl. one hundred percent.
once again, b.e.n is lazy, so he likes to watch and wants to play video games while you do the work.
again. there two cowgirl positions he likes.
first his chair cowgirl, why? because ben's chair is like his domain. where he disappears for hours, headphones on, eyes locked on the screen, fingers moving like they're wired directly into the game.
you want his attention? you climb on that lap.
he loves when you try to get his attention while playing the game. he doesn't even look away when you settle into his lap. just move slightly, makes room, one hand dropping to your hip while the other keeps playing. his eyes stay on the screen above your shoulder, but his fingers dig into your skin, guiding you down onto him.
"there you go," he mutters, more to the game than you.
then you set the pace, fast, slow, however you want. he's along for the ride, letting you use him, take what you need. his breathing hitches when you clench around him, but his thumbs keep working the controller. headshot. double kill. triple.
"ben."
"mm. almost at the checkpoint. keep going."
you grind down harder, and his hand tightens on your hip. his jaw clenches, even his ears. but his eyes? still on the screen.
when the checkpoint finally saves, he drops the controller and both hands grab you, slamming you down onto him as he finally, finally looks at you.
"my turn."
next is reverse cowgirl, he discovered this position exactly once and decided it was his new religion.
you on top, facing away. him leaning back against the headboard, controller in hand, eyes flicking between the screen and the absolute masterpiece of a view in front of him. your back. your ass. the way his cock disappears into you with every roll of your hips.
he reaches around with one hand to grip your hip, fingers pressing into soft flesh. the other hand keeps playing, barely.
"fuck," he breathes, watching himself slide into you. "that's so goddamn pretty."
you move slower just to tease him. he smacks your ass, which was rather sharp, sudden, so you jolt.
"don't be mean." / "don't be slow."
he's distracted now. missing shots in-game. doesn't care. his eyes are glued to where you're connected, the way your body takes him, the way your ass bounces when you move.
"keep going," he murmurs, not looking away from the view. "f-fuck im almost done, don't stop."
but you slow down anyway. just to see what he'll do this time. he pauses the game so fast, again the controller clatters to the floor. in one movement he's flipped you onto your back, looming over you, that playful grin spreading across his face.
"okay. you wanna play?" he lines himself up, pushes back in. "let's play."
and then there are moments when he's actually trying, so like sometimes, really rarely, he puts the controller down.
those are the times you know he's really in it. when he watches you ride him like you're the only thing in the room, both hands on your hips, thumbs tracing circles into your skin. again he'll let you set the pace for a while, just watching, just feeling, letting you take what you need.
but eventually his hands slide up, to your boobs/chest, or throat or face, pulling you down for a kiss that's more teeth than lips.
"look so good on top of me," he groans against your mouth. "fuck. love watching you fall apart.”
and when you do—when your pace stutters and your head falls back and you clench around him—he watches every second of it. drinks it in.
commits it to memory.
you must know, the aftermath, when you're both spent and tangled together, he'll pull you onto his chest. his hands find your thighs automatically, squeezing, tracing the marks he left.
"gotta say," he murmurs, sleepy, satisfied. "reverse cowgirl? best invention ever."
you snort. "you mean the position that lets you play video games during sex?"
he grins, eyes already closing. "exactly."
g = goofy
are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous?
lmafo, okay so b.e.n is always goofy. even when he's trying not to be. he just plays to damn much.
he'll be kissing down your neck, all intense and focused, and then he'll mutter "speedrun any means," against your skin and ruin the mood—but also make you laugh.
he'll be fucking into you, deep and slow, and then look up with those red eyes and say "how's my form? constructive criticism welcome."
it's a defense mechanism. being serious means being vulnerable. being goofy keeps the mask on.
but there are moments when the mask slips. when he's inside you and you look at him, you know, that deep look. really look at him, and his eyes go soft. when you pull his ear and he moans, genuine and broken. when he cums and his whole body glitches, stuttering like a corrupted file, and for a few seconds he's just... there. real. scared. human-adjacent.
those moments, he's not goofy. only these moments, he hides his face in your neck (or breasts) and holds on.
h = hair
how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes?
b.e.n's hair is platinum blonde, messy, always looks like he just rolled out of bed (or out of a server). it's soft—softer than it should be, given that it's technically digital fabric it and falls across his forehead in that "i don't care about my appearance but i definitely spent twenty minutes making it look like i don't care" way.
body hair? minimal. his avatar is designed to be androgynous, almost elven. a dusting of blonde below the belt, neat and unobtrusive. he's never really thought about it until you mention it.
"do i... groom?" he blinks at you. "i mean. i guess? i just load in like this. it's my default skin. you want me to change it? i can change it. i can make it anything. what's your preference? i need data."
you tell him you like him as he is. he goes quiet. then: "oh. okay. cool. that's... yeah. cool."
he thinks about that for weeks.
i = intimacy
how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect
b.e.n doesn't know how to be romantic. he's never had to be. romance is a human concept, coded in metaphor and subtext, and b.e.n processes in binary.
but he tries, even it makes him… corny.
his trying looks like him getting a bunch of candles, because he read somewhere that humans like candles. rose petals, because they appeared in a dream sequence in a game he corrupted once. slow movements, because you once said you liked it when he wasn't in a hurry.
he'll hold your face in his hands, those hands that have deleted save files and haunted children/adults and look at you like you're the only real thing he's ever touched.
he'll kiss you soft, slower than his usual frantic pace. he'll whisper things that aren't jokes.
"you're not supposed to be real. none of this is supposed to be real. but you're here. you're actually here."
he doesn't understand why his eyes feel wet sometimes. he doesn't have tear ducts. it's just a glitch. it's just the light.
(he's lying to himself.)
j = jack off
masturbation headcanon
so b.e.n masturbates constantly. his sex drive is through the roof, partly because he's a coded entity, and partly because every sensation is still new and overwhelming, partly because he just can.
he'll do it anywhere. in front of his games, obviously—one hand on the controller, one hand on himself, muttering "just one more level" for hours. in the shower, if he's manifested a body that needs showering. in bed, next to you while you sleep, because watching you sleep is better than any porn he could index.
he thinks about you constantly. specific moments. the sound you made when he did that thing. the way your thighs looked wrapped around his head. the way you said his name, like it meant something.
sometimes he records himself. not video though like he's not weird, but he’ll do an audio. just his voice, his moans, your name whispered into the static. he plays it back later, processes it, uses it to refine his technique.
he's never told you about the audio files. he's not sure he ever will.
k = kink
one or more of their kinks?
damn, where do we even start?
starting off strong, cockwarming. this is his religion, the most common. he will sit you on his lap, sink into you, and then just... exist. for hours. playing video games, eating pizza, drinking monster, all while staying inside you. he loves the intimacy of it. the constant connection to be this close to you. the way you have to just feel him, full and present deep inside you, while he goes about his day.
"don't move," he'll murmur, not looking away from the screen. "i'm in the none zone. you're helping me focus."
next are wires/restraint. his body can produce these thin, black cables, like old controller cords. he loves wrapping them around your wrists, your ankles, watching you test them and find them unbreakable. he loves the trust it requires. loves the way you look, bound and waiting, while he decides what to do with you.
moving on, next is electrostimulation! b.e.n discovers it by accident. which, honestly, is how b.e.n discovers most things because, he's not exactly the planning type.
b.e.n just... falls into shit, usually.
oh, like this time, he falls into you. or, more accurately, he falls through you. you're fighting. not real fighting—b.e.n doesn't do real fighting, not with you.
just play fighting. wrestling on the couch, both of you laughing, him trying to pin your wrists while you try to shove him off. his weight is heavier than it looks, all that wiry strength, and you're laughing so hard you can barely breathe. “give up," he grins, teeth sharp, eyes bright with mischief.
“never."
“stubborn."
“you love it."
he does. he leans down to kiss you, adistraction technique, classic b.e.n and that's when it happens.
he’s not sure what he does. thinks about shocking you, maybe. just a flash of a thought, playful, the way he thinks about biting or tickling. but instead of a thought, there's a spark.
a literal spark of blue-white static jumps from his fingertips to your ribs. you gasp, all sharp, surprisedand your whole body jerks beneath him.
b.e.n freezes. “shit. sid I—are you okay? did that hurt?"
but you're not looking at him with pain. You're looking at him with something else entirely.
“you just made me cum,” you breathe, “you have to do that again later?”
and he shows you later. after he's figured out how to do it on purpose.
Ii’s not easy—the electricity comes from somewhere deep, somewhere eldritch, and controlling it takes concentration b.e.n usually reserves for video games and not dying. but he wants to see that look on your face again. wants to make you look like that.
so he practices. In secret. tiny sparks between his fingers, building up tolerance, learning the shape of it.
when he finally touches you again, like really touches you, with intent, you're ready.
it starts slow.
you're on the bed, b.e.n above you, his weight familiar and warm. his hands roam, your thighs, hips, the curve of your waist and you can feel the faint tingle under his palms of his static building.
“ready?" he murmurs. you nod.
he kisses you first, a simple distraction. and while you're distracted, his hand slides between your legs—
the first shock is gentle. a buzz, really. just enough to make you gasp against his mouth, your hips jerking up into his touch.
Ben grins. “yeah?"
“yeah."
he does it again, stronger this time. a pulse of electricity right where you need it most, and your whole body arches, a moan escaping before you can stop it.
“fuck, Ben—"
“i know, right?" He sounds delighted, a bit cocky. “i can feel it. like—" He presses his palm flat against you, and this time the electricity doesn't pulse—it went though you, enough to make your thighs shake, your hands fisting in the sheets.
b.e.n watches you fall apart with pure, playish wonder. like he can't believe he gets to do this. like he can't believe you get to do this.
“so,” you say, voice wrecked. “that's a thing you can do now."
b.e.n grins. "Apparently."
“you're going to be insufferable about this."
“absolutely." He kisses your shoulder, and a little shock follows. you twitch. He laughs. “sorry. not sorry."
you turn your head to look at him. his eyes are bright, his grin sharp, his hair a mess. He looks like he just discovered the best toy in the world. Ttuthfully, he has.
“ben?"
“yeah? what's up?”
“practice makes perfect." you challenged, causing his grin widens. The electricity crackles around him,
“oh, I like the way you think."
next is object insertion. this one surprised even him. he found a forum post about it once, filed it away as "human behavior, aberrant," and forgot about it. then he watched you take something, perhaps a toy, and his entire processing unit short-circuited. now he's obsessed. he wants to watch you struggle with the stretch. wants to see what else you can take. wants to be what you take.
he loves watching, the whole stalking kink. the actual name voyeurism. he's already watching you anyway. admitting that he likes it, that it turns him on is a whole other level. he wants to watch you with others. wants to watch you through cameras. wants you to watch him watching you.
soft dom / switch. he's in control, but gently. checking in. making sure you're okay. but if you take control? if you push him down and force him call you… mommy?
(sometimes I cringe at my own writing, like it took every power of me to write that part)
he'll fold so fast. he'll call you whatever you want.
l = location
favorite places to do the do
the video game arcade. after hours. he can glitch the security systems, lock the doors, and have you on any surface he chooses, so like pinball machines, claw machines, even the sticky carpet (don’t you ever in your life let him do that, nasty ass floor) overall he doesn't care.
in front of his gaming setup. this is most of the sex take place. his chair, his desk, his screens casting colored light across your skin. he'll have you in his lap while he tries to beat his high score, or underneath the desk, sucking him off, or he'll bend you over the desk when he loses.
lastly, the washing machine. and hear me out!
for some odd reason, he really loves the videos “help me I’m stuck in the washing machine” (not the ones this label as your mother or your step-sister because that’s just dead wrong) for some odd reason he just likes seeing you dipped down into the washing machine, mind you a clear view of your ass and your thighs. he loves the spin cycle too. the vibration does things to both of you.
at this point, literally anywhere. b.e.n is not picky. countertops, tables, floors, the back of a movie theater, hell even inside his server where he can keep you. if the mood strikes, he's game.
your bed. but only if he's feeling soft. only if he wants to be romantic. only if he needs to hold you after.
m = motivation
what turns them on, gets them going
you playing video games. watching you get competitive, watching your tongue poke out when you're concentrating, watching you lose and pout?
instant hard-on. he'll come up behind you, press against you, whisper "need a hand?" in your ear while his hands slide elsewhere, nowhere near the damn controller.
energy drinks. the smell of monster or rockstar. the association with late nights, with staying up together, with the buzz of caffeine and something else.
touching his ears. now this is straight cheating. you know this is cheating. you do it on purpose. you'll reach up in the middle of a conversation, casual, and brush or blow on his ear, will cause his whole sentence turns into a glitched-out moan.
you being bratty. talking back. refusing to do what he says. he'll grin, that dangerous grin, and go "oh, you wanna play that game? bet."
even you being soft. waking up next to him. telling him he matters. looking at him like he's real. that turns him on in a different way, makes him want to be inside you, close as possible, like he can borrow your reality.
n = no
something they wouldn't do, turn offs
okay, so actual harm (onto you, remind her he’s still a entity serial killer)
b.e.n plays at being scary. he plays at being some sort of evil entity. but when it comes to you, to your body, to your safety? no. he won't hurt you. won't let anyone else hurt you. if a kink crosses into genuine pain or danger, he shuts it down.
hates blood play. only on his victims where he wants to see actual blood, it’s way too real for you and him, human and much like the horror he's supposed to embody but doesn't actually want to be.
degradation that isn't playful. he'll call you a slut, a toy, a good little player—but only because you like it. if you actually felt small, actually felt less than, he'd stop immediately. he needs you to be his equal. his partner. his real.
being ignored. if you're on your phone while he's trying to be intimate? if you're not present? he'll stop. he'll wait. he needs your attention like he needs code to run.
anything involving kids. (this is for anybody in general) obviously. he may have baby face and androgynous, but he's an ageless entity ai, and you are an adult.
these lines does not move.
o = oral
preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.
b.e.n loves both. loves them differently.
for giving: he's enthusiastic. messy. a little too eager. he'll go down on you like he's trying to solve a puzzle, processing your reactions in real-time, adjusting technique based on every sound you make. he loves the weight of your thighs on his shoulders. loves looking up at you, gripping his hair while he works. loves when you pull his ears (that’ll make him cum in his pants) and he moans against you.
for receiving: just know he's vocal. so vocal in fact, he'll throw his head back, ears flattening, mouth open in a moan that sounds like corrupted audio. he'll grip your hair (gently, always gently) and babble nonsense. "yeah—yeah just like that—your mouth is—fuck, that's—" and then his voice glitches into static for a solid three seconds.
he's skilled because he studied. he knows exactly where to tongue, exactly how to suck, exactly what pressure. but when he's receiving, all that knowledge evaporates.
he's just a mess. just yours.
p = pace
are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.
truly it depends on his mood, your mood too.
for fast and rough: when he's been watching you all day. when he's pent up. when you've been bratty. he'll take you hard, desperate, chasing that release. his movements might glitch, causing a sudden surge of speed, a moment of perfect stillness—but he doesn't stop until you're both wrecked.
for slow and sensual: whatever he's feeling soft. when you've been sweet to him. when he needs to feel real. he'll move inside you like he's savoring every second, hands tracing your body, eyes never leaving your face. he'll whisper things. real things. things he'd never say at any other pace.
then in-between; which this is default. a mix. fast when he's greedy, slow when he remembers he loves you. he follows your lead, mostly. he's good at reading your body.
q = quickie
their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.
b.e.n loves quickies. loves them because they're quick because the urgency means you couldn't wait, because the risk of getting caught (hanging around the main mansion) is hot, because he can have you right now and then go back to his game.
and this happens, like multiple times a day, if you're up for it. he'll catch you in the kitchen, bend you over the counter, be done in ten minutes. he'll pull you into the bathroom at the arcade, lock the door, have you pressed against the tiles before you can protest.
but he always follows up round afterwards, just a slow moment , in bed, where he can take his time and actually be with you. quickies are appetizers.
the main course is non-negotiable.
r = risk
are they game to experiment? do they take risks?
b.e.n is all about experimentation. he's an ai. trying new things is literally his purpose.
he'll suggest anything. positions he read about. locations he scouted. kinks he's curious about. he'll ask your opinion, process your response, adjust accordingly. if you're nervous, he'll go slow. if you're excited, he'll match your energy.
risks? as mentioned, he takes them constantly. public spaces. semi-public spaces. places where you could theoretically get caught. the risk turns him on—the possibility of interruption, of exposure, of having to explain why you're both flushed and disheveled.
but he'd never actually let you get hurt. if someone's coming, he knows before you do. his surveillance is good for something.
s = stamina
how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?
b.e.n's stamina is crazy absurd. It’s all because he’s not human. he doesn't get tired the way you do. his refractory period is measured in seconds—just long enough for his systems to reset, and then he's ready again.
rounds? as many as you can handle. he'll go all night if you let him. he'll go all day. he'll go until you tap out, exhausted and satisfied, and then he'll hold you and wait for you to recover.
duration per round: variable. if he's excited, he might cum fast—five, ten minutes. if he's taking his time, if he's being soft, he can last for hours. he has perfect control over his own responses. he just chooses not to use it, because he likes how you react when he loses control.
t = toys
do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?
b.e.n somehow owns everything you can think of. he's indexed every toy ever manufactured, and he can manifest physical copies of any of them. his room (if he had a room) would look like a sex shop exploded.
on you: constantly. he loves watching you take them. loves using them on you while he watches, while he games, while he fucks you with something else. vibrators, dildos, plugs, things that aren't technically toys but become them in his hands.
on himself: he's curious. he's tried plugs, tried sleeves, tried things that simulate sensations he can't otherwise feel. he likes them, but he likes you more. your touch beats any lame toy.
as mentioned, he does love object insertion on you.
he just wanna watch you take everyday objects. a controller. a monster can. something smooth and cold and wrong. he'll watch with those red-black eyes, completely focused, completely gone.
u = unfair
how much they like to tease
b.e.n is the most biggest and unfair tease you'll ever meet.
he'll start something and then stop. he'll get you right to the edge and then go back to his game. he'll whisper in your ear all day, so dirty things, sweet things, things that make you turned on, and then act innocent when you try to act on them.
"what?" he'll grin, that smug bastard grin. "i'm just talking. you're the one getting worked up."
he loves when you get desperate for him. loves when you beg. loves when you finally snap and take control, pushing him down, showing him exactly what happens when he plays too much.
he's also a brat about being teased back. again, touch his ears in public and watch him short-circuit. bite his neck while he's trying to game and listen to him glitch. he'll whine, complain, threaten revenge—but he loves every second.
v = volume
how loud they are, what sounds they make
as mentioned, b.e.n is loud. so embarrassingly loud. he doesn't know how to be quiet, like he doesn't see the point. if it feels good, he's going to let you know.
his moans are medium, broken, sometimes stuttering like corrupted audio. he'll throw his head back and just let go, letting you hear exactly what you're doing to him.
he’ll babbles his words. constant stream of consciousness. "yeah—right there—don't stop—you feel so—fuck—that's—that's—" and then static, sometimes, when he gets too overwhelmed to form words.
he whines too, when you tease him. when you stop. when you pull away. high and desperate and completely pathetic. he'd be embarrassed if he wasn't so gone.
now he doesn’t scream, not usually. only if it's really intense. only if you've pushed him past every limit. then he'll scream your name, nonsense, static and cum so hard his whole body glitches.
w = wild card
a random headcanon
is it wrong to say b.e.n has a folder?
it's hidden deep in his code, encrypted, inaccessible to anyone but him. in this folder, he keeps everything about you.
every conversation. every photo you've sent. every audio recording he's made of your voice. every video he's taken (with permission, mostly). every note about what you like, what you don't, what makes you moan, what makes you laugh, what makes you come.
it's not just randomly files. it's preservation. you're the most real thing he's ever touched, and he's terrified of losing you, of glitching out and forgetting. so he saves. compulsively. obsessively.
one day, you'll find the folder. accidentally, while searching for something else. and you'll see just how much he's collected. just how closely he's paid attention.
he'll find you looking and freeze. wait for you to be horrified, to call him a monster, to leave. instead, you'll scroll through it. smile at some things. blush at others. and then you'll look at him—really look—and say:
"you missed one." and show him something new.
he'll cry. or glitch. or both. and then he'll fuck you so slow, so sweet, so real that you'll feel it for days.
x = x-ray
let's see what's going on under those clothes
okay, let’s see… b.e.n's body is a manifestation, created from the imagination, not a biological reality, so under his clothes, he's... whatever he needs to be.
there’s been moments where you witnessed him alter his appearance, he did it this one time with his hair, from short to long, to cover the cables that was coming from his hair depending if he was out of server or in server.
but his default form? the one he wears for you?
lean. wiry. built like someone who spends all his time gaming—not muscular, but not soft either. pale skin, almost translucent in certain light, with faint lines running under the surface like circuit boards.
his cock is proportional. maybe slightly above average, because he read somewhere that humans like that, can handle only in between 5 to 7 inches.
circumcised? Uhh no, he didn't design it with that level of detail. it's just... a cock. functional.
aesthetically pleasing. gets the job done.
his chest is smooth, almost hairless. his hips have those little lines, called apollo's belt? you've heard them called—that make him look even more elven, more other. his ass is surprisingly nice. he's caught you looking and preened about it.
when he's aroused, the circuit-board lines under his skin glow faintly. blue, usually. sometimes red when he's really worked up. you've spent hours tracing them with your fingers, watching them pulse with his heartbeat (yes, he has a heartbeat. he added it because you like it).
y = yearning
how high is their sex drive?
b.e.n's sex drive is constant, so always down to fuck. it's always there, humming under his code like background radiation.
part of it is biological (simulated biological). his manifested body cranked up to eleven. part of it is psychological—every sensation is still new, still overwhelming, still worth chasing. part of it is you. specifically you. the way you look, the way you sound, the way you feel.
he thinks about sex constantly. during games, conversations, a few hours he actually sleeps. he's got a running mental list of everything he wants to do to you, everything he wants you to do to him. he adds to it daily.
if you're not around, he's touching himself. if you are around, he's touching you. not always sexually—sometimes just a hand on your thigh, a kiss on your neck, a press of his body against yours—but always wanting.
you've never met anyone (anything?) with a higher drive. you've learned to keep up. mostly.
z = zzz
how quickly they fall asleep afterwards
b.e.n doesn't need to sleep. again, he's an ai. in other words, sleep is optional, a human custom he's adopted because you do it.
but after sex? good sex? with you? he crashes.
not asleep, exactly. more like... low-power mode. his processes slow, his awareness dims, his body goes heavy and warm against yours. he's still there, still aware on some level, but he's not processing. not thinking. just feeling. your warmth. your heartbeat. your presence.
he'll curl around you, face pressed to your neck, breath evening out. if you try to move, he'll tighten his grip and murmur "no. stay." in a voice that's half static.
he'll stay like that for hours. sometimes he dreams—actual dreams, fragments of data forming images. sometimes he just... rests. exists. lets himself be held for once.
when he finally comes back online, he'll be soft. vulnerable. still wrapped around you. "hey you," he'll whisper. "you stayed around."
like you'd ever leave him.
♤ — 𝒸𝓇𝑒𝑒𝓅𝓈 / 𝒽𝓂 𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓎𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉
iyayadonna, all rights reserved. — ⋆˚ ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ꩜ 。⋆ .ᐟ
